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EiSTGLISH    POETEY   AISTD    POETS. 


TESTIMONIAL 

From  D.  B.  Hagar,  A.M.,  Pnncipal  of  the  State  Normal 
School,  Salem,  Mass. 

"It  gives  me  more  than  ordinary  pleasure  to  commend 
to  lovers  of  good  literature  Mrs.  Sarah  W.  Brooks's 
Lectures  on  English  Authors.  The}-  have  been  pre- 
pared with  the  utmost  care,  and  they  give  ample  evidence 
of  patient  and  accurate  research,  of  a  refined  taste,  and  of 
a  just  appreciation  of  the  author's  merits.  The  style  of 
the  lectures  is  graceful  and  attractive.  For  the  private 
reader,  and  for  classes  in  schools,  these  lectures  cannot  fail 
to  be  a  source  of  great  pleasure  and  profit." 


The  Lectures  have  also  been  warmly  commended  by  Dr 
W.  J.  RoLFE,  and  other  eminent  educators  and  critics. 


ENGLISH 


POETRY   AND    POETS. 


BY 


SARAH  WARNER  BROOKS. 


As  the  special  distinction  of  man  is  speech,  it  would  seem  that  there 
can  be  no  higher  achievement  of  civilized  men,  no  proof  more  conclusive 
that  they  are  civilized  men,  than  the  power  of  moulding  words  into  such 
fair  and  noble  forms  as  shall  people  the  human  mind  forever  with  images 
that  refine,  console,  and  iuspiie.  — Lowell. 


BOSTON : 

ESTES    AND    LAURIAT, 

Publishers. 


y\ 


^ 


Copyright,  1890, 
By  Sarah  Wakker  Brooks. 


Hmbcrsi'tg  iSress: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  CAMBRrooE. 


DEDICATED  TO  THE   MEMORY 

OF 

M^  23eloi3£ti  ©aiis^tct, 

IN   TENDER  AND   GRATEFUL   ACKNOWLEDGMENT   OF   ALL   HER 

HELL'FUL  AND   INTELLIGENT   SYMPATHY   WITH   MY 

BEST    INTELLECTUAL    ENDEAVOR, 

MARY    ISABEL    BROOKS, 
Died  March  4,  1883. 


PEETACE. 


IN  the  hope  that  a  work  undertaken  without  the 
remotest  view  to  publication,  but  for  the  com- 
paratively ephemeral  purpose  of  imparting  oral  in- 
formation and  entertainment,  may  prove  permanently 
valuable,  I  commit  to  print  the  result  of  much 
delightful  reading,  with  some  loving  and  earnest 
(though   far   from   scholarly)  original   criticism. 

In  my  eager  and  various  reading  I  quoted  and 
transposed  —  for  the  benefit  of  my  classes  in  English 
Poetry  —  from  many  authors.  It  did  not  then  seem 
necessary  to  retain  in  memory  all  the  sources  of 
my  information ;  consequently  I  cannot  now  duly 
accredit  some  of  my  borrowings.  In  a  work  like 
this,  such  an  offence  may,  I  trust,  be  forgiven. 
Where  much  learned  and  able  work  has  been  done 
by  "  my  betters,"  I  have  not  hoped  to  excel ;  but 
if  I  may  help  to  foster  a  love  and  appreciation  of 
the  good  and  true  in  English  verse,  I  shall  have 
attained  to  my  highest  end  and  ambition. 

S.  W.  B. 

Cambridge,  March,  1890. 


^ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Ancient  Bards  and  Minstrels 11 

II.  Earliest  Remains  of  Anglo-Saxon  Verse  32 

III.  Chaucer 48 

IV.  Some  Predecessors  of  Spenser      ....  58 
V.  Elizabethan  Age,  and  Spenser      ....  70 

VI.  Minor  Elizabethan  Poetry   ......  89 

VII.  Old  English  Drama Ill 

VIII.  Shakespeare 133 

IX.  Poetry  of   the    Commonwealth   and   the 

Restoration 156 

X.  Milton 181 

.XI.  Pope,  and  the  Minor  Poets  op  the  Arti- 

/                ficial  School 205 

XII.  Young,  Thomson,  Goldsmith,  Gray,  Minor 

Poets,  and  Cowper 233 

XIII.  Scottish  Poetry  and  Robert  Burns      .     .  270 

XIV.  Wordsworth  and  the  Lake  School  .     .     .  298 
XV.  Coleridge  and  Southey 318 

XVI.  Campbell  and  Scott 343 


CONTENTS. 


I 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVll.  Byron  and  Moore 368 

XVIII.  Minor  Poets  of  Humble  Birth      ....  388 

XIX.  "  Female  Poetry  " 412 

XX.  Leigh  Hunt  and  Kp:ats 440 

XXI.  Shelley 456 

XXII.  Hood,  Macaulay,  and  Landor 471 

XXIII.  Rogers,  Lamb,   Pollok,  and  Minor  Poets 

of  the  Time 486 


Index  to  Poems  quoted  or  mentioned 


ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS. 

POETRY  is  older  than  prose.  Tracing  her  pathway 
down  the  dipa  ages,  as  she  comes,  slowly  at  first, 
but  ever  surely,  to  exalt  and  ennoble  the  soul  of  man, 
and  to  weave  his  dreams,  imaginations,  and  ideals  into 
imperishable  fabric,  we  must  grope  half-blindly  backward 
to  a  time  when  papyrus  and  parchment  had  not  yet  been 
succeeded  by  paper,  and  when  no  prophetic  vision  of 
*' Carter's  Ink"  or  "  Gillott's  Best"  had  ever  dawned 
upon  the  imagination  in  its  boldest  flight. 

The  only  thoughts  which  men  in  their  first  rude  state 
would  be  prompted  to  utter  in  composition  of  any  length 
would  naturally  assume  the  form  of  poetr3%  —  as  praises 
of  their  gods  and  their  ancestors,  lamentations  over  their 
misfortunes,  and  rehearsal  of  their  warlike  exploits. 

When  thought  depended  for  its  perpetuity  on  verbal 
repetition,  prose  composition,  having  far  less  hold  upon 
the  imagination  and  memory  than  verse,  could  not  well 
have  been  retained  and  transmitted  by  oral  tradition,  as 
were  ouk  ancient  songs  and  poems,  the  rude  and  meagre 
beginnings  of  our  literature.  Thus  it  will  appear  that  to 
poetry  wa  owe  not  only  the  cultivation  and  perfection 
of  our  composition,  but  its  very  birth. 


12        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


We  are  told  by  the  historian  that  a  few  3'ears  before  the 
birth  of  Christ  a  nation  of  Asiatic  Goths  who  possessed 
that  region  of  Asia  which  is  now  called  Georgia,  and  is 
connected  on  the  south  with  Persia,  alarmed  at  the  pro- 
gressive encroachments  of  the  Roman  armies,  retired  in 
vast  mitltitudes  under  the  conduct  of  their  leader  Odin, 
or  "Woden,  into  the  northern  parts  of  Europe  not  sub- 
ject to  the  Roman  Government,  settling  in  Denmark, 
Norway,  Sweden,  and  other  districts  of  the  Scandinavian 
territory. 

These  Goths  were  hospitably  received  b}'  the  natives, 
who  seem  to  have  finally  adopted  their  language,  laws, 
and  religion.  The  superior  ability  and  address  of  Odin 
won  the  admiration  of  a  more  savage  people,  and  they 
readily  gave  to  this  Asiatic  chief  the  title  of  God.  In  the 
Scandinavian  mythology  he  is  permanently  enthroned  as 
"  All-father,"  the  supreme  of  the  immortals.  The  Goths 
are  said  to  have  brought  with  them  many  useful  arts, 
among  them  the  knowledge  of  "  Runes,"  or  letters,  which 
Odin,  it  is  claimed,  invented.  It  may  be  observed  that 
the  word  "  Rune ''  is  by  sonje  derived  from  "  runeu,"  —  that 
is,  to  make  a  slight  incision  or  scratch  ;  b}'  others  from  the 
German  word  ''  rauneu,"  — that  is,  whisper.  Hence  "  Ru- 
nic" designates  a  secret  mj'sterious  writing  belonging  to  the 
priests,  to  whom  at  one  period  the  art  seems  to  have  been 
wholly  confined.  The  Runic  alphabet  has  but  sixteen 
characters.  From  the  similarity  of  the  Runic  signs  to 
corresponding  Roman  ones,  it  has  been  suggested  that 
this  alphabet  was  borrowed  from  the  Romans  ;  this,  how- 
ever, is  said  to  have  been  explained  from  the  fact  that 
the  Romans  themselves  received  their  characters  from  an 
Eastern  source,  as  the  Asiatic  Goths  must  have  done. 

Modern  travellers  report  that  there  are  Runic  inscrip- 
tions now  existing  in  the  deserts  of  Tartary,  which  would 


ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.  13 

seem  to  prove  that  the  art  or  custom  of  writing  on  rocks  is 
Asiatic. 

The  most  ancient  specimens  of  the  Norse  language  are 
the  rune-stones,  rings,  and  wooden  tablets,  with  inscrip- 
tions in  the  old  Runic  characters. 

"  Their  skill  in  poetrj',"  says  the  historian,  "was  among 
the  arts  which  the  Goths  implanted  in  Scandinavia.  With 
then*  poetry,  they  imported  into  Europe  a  species  of  poets 
called  Scalds,  or  '  polishers  of  language.*  " 

The  Scalds  were  from  the  earliest  ages  held  in  the  high- 
est veneration  b}'  our  Teutonic  ancestors.  As  the  origin 
of  their  art  was  attributed  to  Odin,  their  skill  was  con- 
sidered as  something  divine ;  their  persons  were  deemed 
sacred  ;  their  attendance  was  solicited  by  kings,  whom  they 
accompanied  in  battle  and  whose  victories  the}^  celebrated  ; 
and  they  were  everywhere  loaded  with  honors  and  rewards. 
Dr.  Blair's  fine  essay  on  the  "  Poems  of  Ossian  "  contains 
this  graphic  description  of  the  era  of  the  early  Scalds : 

"  There  are,"  he  observes,  '*  four  great  stages  of  society:  the 
first  and  earliest  is  the  life  of  hunters ;  pasturage  succeeds  to 
this  as  the  ideas  of  property  begin  to  take  root ;  next,  agricul- 
ture, and  lastly  commerce.  In  the  first  of  these  periods,  during 
which  hunting  was  the  chief  employment  of  men  and  their 
principal  method  of  obtaining  subsistence,  the  art  of  poetry 
was  planted  by  Odin  in  the  north  of  Europe.  Whatever  was 
beyond  the  necessaries  of  life  was  known  to  the  Goths  only  as 
the  spoil  of  the  Roman  Prqvince.  At  their  feasts  the  heroes 
prepared  their  own  repasts;  and  as  they  sat  round  the  light  of 
the  burning  oak,  the  wind  lifted  their  locks  and  whistled  through 
their  open  halls. 

"  The  rudest  face  of  Nature  appears,  —  a  country  wholly  un- 
cultivated, thinly  inhabited,  and  recently  settled.  The  circle  of 
ideas  and  transactions  was  no  wider  than  suits  such  an  age. 
Valor  and  bodily  strength  are  the  admired  qualities.  Conten- 
tions arise,  as  is  usual  among  savage  nations,  from  the  slightest 


14        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS„ 


causes.  To  be  affronted  at  a  tournament,  or  to  be  omitted 
the  invitation  to  a  feast,  kindles  a  war.  Women  are  carried  off, 
and  the  whole  tribe,  as  in  the  Homeric  times,  rise  to  avenge 
the  wrong.  In  their  battles  it  is  evident  the  drum,  trumpet,  or 
bagpipe  were  not  known  or  used.  They  had  no  expedient  for 
giving  the  military  alarm  but  striking  on  a  shield  or  raising 
a  loud  cry. 

"  Their  armies  seem  not  to  have  been  numerous.  They 
appear  to  have  been  destitute  of  military  discipline  and  skill. 
The  battles  were  disorderly,  and  terminated  for  the  most  part 
by  a  personal  combat  or  wrestling  between  the  two  chiefs,  after 
which  the  '  bards  sang  the  song  of  triumph,  and  the  battle 
ceased  along  the  hills.'  Their  ideas  were  all  particular.  They 
had  not  words  to  express  general  conceptions ;  these  were  the 
consequence  of  more  profound  reflection  and  larger  acquaint- 
ance with  the  arts  of  thought  and  speech. 

"  A  public,  a  community,  the  universe,  were  conceptions  be- 
yond their  sphere,  as  also  was  personification  as  a  poetical  figure. 
Inanimate  objects,  such  as  trees,  woods,  and  flowers,  they  are 
supposed  to  have  personified;  but  those  of  later  poets  —  Time, 
Terror,  Fame,  Virtue  —  were  modes  of  expression  too  abstract 
for  the  age." 

The  poetry  of  the  Scalds,  containing  not  only  the  praises 
of  their  heroes  but  their  popular  traditions  and  religious 
rites,  was  filled  with  those  superstitions  which  would  nat- 
urally pervade  the  fictions  of  a  wild,  imaginative  Asiatic 
people.  Some  of  the  superstitions  handed  down  from  the 
old  Goths  and  Scandinavians  are  retained  to  this  dsiy  in 
the  English  language.  Mara,  from  whom  our  '^nightmare " 
is  derived,  was  in  the  Runic  theolog}^  a  spirit  or  spectre 
of  the  night,  which  seized  men  in  their  sleep  and  sud- 
denly deprived  them  of  speech  and  motion.  Among  those 
boar-feasting,  mead-guzzling  Goths  we  can  easily  imagine 
Mara  as  a  resident  household  fiend.  In  the  days  of  fable, 
poetry,  without  fear  of  contradiction,  could  give  what  char- 
acter she  pleased  to  her  heroes.    Men  loved  to  record  their 


I 


ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.  15 

connection  with  ciiiefs  so  renowned.  Bards  were  emploj'ed 
to  perpetuate  tlieir  deeds  in  song ;  and  thus  in  process  of 
time  ever^^  chief  had  a  bard  in  his  own  family,  and  the 
office  at  last  became  hereditary.  B}^  the  succession  of 
these  bards  the  poems  concerning  the  ancestors  of  the 
famil3^  were  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation, 
and  always  alluded  to  in  the  new  compositions  of  the  bards. 
This  custom  came  down  to  a  period  not  altogether  remote 
from  our  own  time  ;  for  after  the  bards  were  discontinued 
a  great  number  in  a  clan  retained  by  memory  or  committed 
to  writing  their  compositions,  and  founded  the  antiquity  of 
their  families  on  the  authority'  of  their  poems. 

The  descendants  of  the  Celts  who  inhabited  Britain  and 
its  Isles  were,  it  is  averred,  not  singular  in  this  method  of 
preserving  the  most  precious  monuments  of  their  nation. 
We  are  told  that  the  Spartans  through  long  habit  be- 
came so  fond  of  this  custom  of  oral  tradition  that  they 
would  never  allow  their  laws  to  be  committed  to  writing. 
All  the  historical  monuments  of  the  old  Germans  were 
comprehended  in  their  ancient  songs  and  orally  handed 
down.  Garcillan  is  said  to  have  composed  his  account 
of  the  Incas  of  Peru  from  poetical  traditions,  the  Peru- 
vians having  lost  all  other  monument  of  their  historj'. 
"  When  we  consider,"  says  Dr.  Blair,  ''  a  college  of 
men  like  the  Scalds,  who,  thus  cultivating  poetr}^  through 
a  long  series  of  3'ears,  had  their  imaginations  continually 
employed  upon  ideas  of  heroism,  who  had  all  the  poems 
and  panegyrics  which  were  composed  by  their  ancestors 
handed  down  to  them  with  care,  is  it  not  natural  to  think 
they  would  contribute  not  a  little  to  exalt  the  public 
manners  ?  " 

Warton,  who  had,  it  is  affirmed,  distinctl}^  considered 
the  peculiarities,  habits,  and  manners  belonging  to  the 
early  Gothic  tribes,  places  the  origin  of  chivalry  in  Europe 


16        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


in  these  early  times,  and  ''  finds  the  seeds  of  elega 
among  men  only  distinguished  for  their  ignorance  and 
barbarity.  To  this  people,"  he  says,  ''  we  must  refer 
the  origin  of  gallantry  in  Europe."  Even  amid  the  con- 
fusion of  savage  war  and  among  the  most  incredible 
cruelties  committed  by  the  Goths  at  their  invasion  of 
Europe,  they  forbore  to  offer  any  violence  to  the  women. 
The  Gothic  nations  dreaded  captivity  more  on  account 
of  their  women  than  their  own ;  and  the  Romans,  avail- 
ing themselves  of  this  apprehension,  often  demanded 
their  noblest  virgins  as  hostages. 

They  believed  some  divine  and  prophetic  quality  to  be 
inherent  in  their  women.  It  is  related  of  Valeda,  a  Ger- 
man prophetess,  who  held  frequent  conferences  with  the 
Roman  generals,  that  on  some  occasions,  on  account  of  the 
sacredness  of  her  person,  she  was  placed  at  a  great  dis- 
tance on  a  high  tower,  from  whence  like  an  oracular 
divinity  she  conveyed  her  answers  b}^  some  chosen  mes- 
senger. Exaggerated  ideas  of  female  chastity  prevailed 
among  the  Northern  nations,  and  the  passion  of  love, 
controlled  by  the  principles  of  honor  and  integrity,  ac- 
quired a  degree  of  delicac3\ 

It  is  related  of  Regner  Lodbrok  that,  imprisoned  in  a 
loathsome  dungeon  and  condemned  to  be  destroyed  b}- 
venomous  serpents,  he  solaced  himself  by  recollecting  and 
reciting  the  glorious  achievements  of  his  past  life.  The 
first  which  his  Ode  commemorates  is  an  achievement  of 
chivalry.  It  was  the  delivery  of  a  beautiful  Swedish 
princess,  whom  he  afterward  married,  from  an  impreg- 
nable fortress  in  which  she  was  forcibly  detained. 

Boh,  a  Danish  champion,  having  lost  his  chin  and  one 
of  his  cheeks  by  a  single  stroke  from  his  adversary,  only 
reflected  how  he  should  be  received,  when  thus  maimed 
and  disfigured,  by  the  Danish  girls.     He  is  said  to  have 


1 

nee  m 


ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.  17 

instantly  exclaimed,  "  The  Danish  girls  will  not  now  will- 
ingly or  easily  give  me  kisses  if  I  should  perhaps  return 
home."  Harold,  one  of  the  most  eminent  adventurers  of 
his  age,  complains  in  his  Ode  that  the  reputation  he  had 
acquired  by  so  many  hazardous  exploits,  by  his  skill  in 
single  combat,  riding,  swimming,  gliding  along  the  ice, 
darting,  rowing,  and  guiding  a  ship  through  the  rocks, 
had  not  been  able  to  make  any  impression  upon  P^lisiff,  the 
beautiful  daughter  of  Janillas,  King  of  Russia.  Chivalrj', 
it  must  be  remembered,  existed  but  in  its  rudiments  at 
this  early  era ;  later,  after  the  Norman  Conquest,  it 
became  a  formal  institution. 

A  skill  in  poetry  is  said  to  have  become  in  some  measure 
a  national  science  among  the  Scandinavians,  and  familiar 
with  almost  every  order  and  degree.  Their  kings  and 
warriors  partook  of  the  epidemic  enthusiasm,  breaking 
forth  on  frequent  occasions  into  spontaneous  songs  and 
verses. 

Asbiorn  Pruda,  a  Danish  champion,  who  lived  at  the 
close  of  the  tenth  centurj-,  described  his  past  life  in  nine 
strophes  while  his  enem}^,  Bruce,  a  giant,  was  tearing  out 
his  bowels. 

"  Tell  my  mother,  Suanita  of  Denmark,"  he  saj's,  "  that 
she  will  not  this  summer  comb  the  hair  of  her  son  ;  I  had 
promised  her  to  return,  but  now  m}'  side  shall  feel  the 
edge  of  the  sword."  Longfellow  gives  a  rhj-med  transla- 
tion of  this  song,  each  stanza  beginning  with  this  line, 
"  Not  such  those  days  of  yore." 

One  could  almost  fancy  the  regretful  burden  of  Asbiorn's 
death-song  floating  down  the  centuries  to  be  re-echoed  at 
last  by  that  peerless  bard  who  sings  from  the  depth  of 
"the  same  divine  despair"  in  strains  tender  and  sad  as 
the  complaining  song  of  his  own  nightingale,  "  The  days 

that  are  no  more." 

2 


18        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

In  the  latter  half  of  the  tenth  century,  at  the  court  of 
Hakon  the  Good,  flourished  the  Scald  Eyvynd,  who  for  his 
skill  in  poetry  was  called  '•  The  Cross  of  Poets."  Eyvynd 
was  the  most  celebrated  of  all  the  Scalds.  His  noble  ode, 
called  in  the  Northern  Chronicles  "  The  Eulogium  of 
Hakon,  King  of  Norway,"  was  composed  in  a  battle  in 
which  the  king  with  eight  of  his  brothers  fell ;  Eyvynd 
fought  himself  in  the  battle  which  he  celebrated.  This 
death-song,  of  which  there  is  a  translation  in  Longfellow's 
collection,  contains  these  lofty  sentiments,  — 

'*  Hallowed  be  the  day, 
Praised  the  year, 
When  a  king  is  born 
"Whom  the  gods  love ! 
By  him  his  time 
And  his  land  shall  be  known. 

«•  Wealth  is  wasted, 
Kinsmen  are  mortal. 
Kingdoms  are  parted ; 
But  Hakon  remains 
High  among  the  gods. 
Till  the  trumpet  shall  sound." 

*'  These  Northern  chiefs  appear  frequently,"  observes 
Warton,  ''  to  have  hazarded  their  lives  merely  in  expec- 
tation of  meeting  a  panegyric  from  their  bards.  Olave, 
King  of  Norway,  when  his  army  was  prepared  for  the 
onset,  placed  three  Scalds  about  him  and  exclaimed  aloud, 
*  You  shall  not  only  record  what  you  have  heard  but  what 
you  have  seen.'  "  We  are  told  that  thus  incited  they  each 
obligingly  delivered  an  ode  on  the  spot. 

It  is  related  in  Canute's  History  that  he  ordered  the 
Scald  Loftunga  to  be  put  to  death  for  daring  to  compre- 
hend his  achievements  in  too  concise  a  poem.  The  bard, 
however,  extorted  a  speedy  pardon  by  producing  the  next 


A1?CIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.  19 

day  at  dinner  before  the  king  an  ode  of  more  than  thirty- 
eight  strophes,  for  which  Canute  gave  him  fifty  marks  of 
purified  silver. 

''  Brevity'*  could  not  have  been  ''  the  soul  of  wit"  in 
Canute's  day.  Young  and  Pollock  would  have  been  "  men 
of  mark"  at  his  court,  and  Wordsworth's  entire  ''  Ex- 
cursion "  might  there  have  secured  a  patient  hearing. 
When  in  the  sixth  century  the  Saxons  succeeded  to  the 
Britons  and  became  possessors  of  England,  it  is  presumed 
that  the  tales  of  the  Scandinavian  Scalds  still  flourished 
among  them. 

The  Saxons  were  originally  situated  in  those  territories 
which  have  since  been  called  Jutland,  Angelan,  and  Hol- 
stein,  and  were  fond  of  tracing  the  descent  of  their  princes 
from  Odin.  They  were  therefore  a  part  of  the  Scandina- 
vian tribes  who  were  literally  our  progenitors.  That  they 
imported  with  them  into  England  the  old  Runic  language 
and  letters  appears  from  inscriptions  on  coins,  stones,  and 
other  monuments. 

Runic  inscriptions,  as  we  well  know,  have  been  dis- 
covered in  Cumberland  and  Scotland,  and  a  coin  of  King 
Ofla,  with  a  Runic  legend,  is  still  extant. 

The  sacredness  of  the  profession  seems  to  have  come 
down  to  a  later  period,  for  it  is  recorded  that  in  Ireland 
to  kill  a  bard  or  to  seize  his  estate,  even  for  the  public 
service  in  time  of  national  distress,  was  considered  crim- 
inal in  the  highest  degree. 

In  the  old  Welsh  laws  whoever  even  slightly  injured  a 
bard  was  to  be  fined  six  cows,  one  hundred  and  twenty 
pence.  The  murderer  of  a  bard  was  to  be  fined  one  hun- 
dred and  twent}'  cows. 

The  conversion  of  the  Saxons  to  Christianity,  which  is 
placed  about  the  seventh  centur}',  abolished  the  common 
use  of  the  Runic  characters,  which  were  esteemed  unhal- 


20  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND   POETS. 

lowed  and  necromantic ;  and  with  their  ancient  supersti- 
tions, their  native  and  original  vein  of  poetic  feeling  was 
in  some  measure  destro^'ed. 

The  genuine  successors  of  the  Northern  Scalds  were  the 
Anglo-Saxon  minstrels,  or  gleemen,  —  a  distinct  order  of 
men  who  got  their  livelihood  by  singing  verses  at  the  houses 
of  the  great.  From  the  decline  of  the  Scalds  till  many  ages 
after  the  Norman  Conquest  there  never  was  wanting  a  suc- 
cession of  them  to  hand  down  the  art.  Much  greater 
honors  had  been  heaped  upon  the  ancient  bards,  in  whom 
the  characters  of  historian,  genealogist,  poet,  musician,  were 
all  united ;  so  that  while  the  talents  of  the  minstrels  were 
chiefly  calculated  to  entertain  and  divert,  the  Scalds  pro- 
fessed to  inform  and  instruct,  and  were  the  moralists  and 
theologists  of  their  countrjmen. 

Yet  the  Anglo-Saxon  minstrel,  or  harper,  continued  to 
command  no  small  degree  of  public  favor.  "  The  arts  he 
possessed  were,"  saj-s  Bishop  Percy,  "so  extremely  ac- 
ceptable to  our  ancestors  that  the  word  '  glee/  which 
peculiarly  denoted  his  art,  continues  still  in  our  own  lan- 
guage to  be  of  all  others  the  most  expressive  of  that  pop- 
ular mirth  and  jollity,  that  strong  sensation  of  delight, 
which  is  felt  by  unpolished  and  simple  minds." 

About  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  century  the  Arabian 
vein  of  fiction  is  supposed  to  have  been  introduced  into 
the  poetry  of  the  North.  *'  Of  a  more  splendid  nature," 
says  a  learned  critic,  "  and  better  adapted  to  the  in- 
creasing civilit3^  of  the  times,  less  horrible  and  gross,  it 
had  a  novelty,  variet}*,  and  magnificence  unknown  to  the 
earlier  Scaldic  era ;  and  afterwards,  enriched  by  kindred 
fancies  brought  from  the  Crusades,  it  gave  rise  to  that 
singular  and  capricious  mode  of  imagination  which  at 
length  composed  the  marvellous  machineries  of  the  more 
sublime  Italian  poets  and  of  their  disciple,  Spenser." 


ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.  21 

The  beautiful  romantic  fiction  that  King  Arthur,  after 
being  wounded  at  the  fatal  battle  of  Camlan,  was  con- 
veyed by  an  elfin  princess  into  Faeryland  to  be  cured 
of  his  wounds ;  that  he  reigns  there  still  in  all  his  pris- 
tine splendor  and  will  one  day  return  to  resume  his  throne 
in  Britain,  —  is  found  only  in  the  compositions  of  the 
Welsh  bards  who  flourished  after  the  native  vein  of  Brit- 
ish fabling  had  been  tinctured  with  exotic  imagery. 

Tennyson's  ''Morte  D' Arthur"  is  an  exquisitely  beau- 
tiful version  of  this  old  Welsh  fable. 

After  the  Conquest,  which  may  be  considered  as  favor- 
able to  the  establishment  of  the  minstrel  profession  in  Eng- 
land, the  Normans,  who  were  early  distinguished  for  their 
musical  talent,  and  to  whom  a  French  writer  refers  the 
origin  of  all  modern  poetry,  would  hsten  to  no  other  songs 
but  such  as  were  composed  in  their  own  Norman-French. 
Yet  as  the  great  mass  of  the  native  gentry  and  populace 
could  only  understand  their  own  tongue,  it  is  supposed 
that  the  English  harper  and  songster  was  still  honored 
among  them.  The  founding  of  a  priory  and  hospital  by 
one  of  their  order  in  1162  is  the  first  mention  made  of  the 
native  harper  after  the  Conquest.  In  the  reign  of  Henry 
II.  an  annuity  from  the  Abbey  of  Hide  was  received  by  a 
harper  as  a  reward  for  his  music  and  songs,  which,  it  is 
hence  inferred,  were  in  the  English  language. 

Henr}"  I.,  called  *' fine  scholar,"  was  fond  of  poetry; 
and  his  queen,  Matilda,  —  daughter  of  the  Scottish  king, 
Malcolm,  and  the  English  Margaret,  —  patronized  the  min- 
strel art  so  liberally  that  her  generosity  became  univer- 
sally known  ;  and  crowds  of  foreigners  —  scholars,  equally 
famed  for  verse  and  singing  —  came  to  her  court,  and 
"happy  did  he  account  himself,"  says  the  historian, 
' '  who  by  the  novelty  of  his  song  could  soothe  the  ears 
of  the  queen." 


22        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Henry's  second  queen,  Alice,  is  also  addressed  by  sev- 
eral of  the  Norman  and  Anglo-Norman  troubadours  as  the 
patroness  of  their  art.  In  the  reign  of  the  renowned  and 
romantic  King  Richard  I.  the  minstrel  profession  acquired 
additional  splendor. 

Richard,  who  was  the  great  hero  of  chivalry,  was  also 
the  distinguished  patron  of  poets  and  minstrels.  He 
was  himself  of  their  number,  and  some  of  his  poems  are 
still  extant.  "The  distinguished  service  which  he  re- 
ceived from  his  minstrel,  Blondel.  in  rescuing  him  from 
his  cruel  and  tedious  captivity,  ought,"  says  Percj-,  "  to 
be  recorded  for  the  honor  of  poets  and  their  art."  It  is 
thus  related  by  an  ancient  writer :  — 

*'  The  Englishmen  were  more  than  a  whole  year  without  hear- 
ing any  tydings  of  their  king,  or  in  what  place  he  was  kept 
prisoner.  He  had  trained  up  in  his  court  a  rimer,  or  Minstrell, 
called  Blondel;  who  being  so  long  without  the  sight  of  his  lord, 
his  life  seemed  wearisome  to  him,  and  he  became  confounded 
with  melancholy.  Known  it  was  that  he  came  back  from  the 
Holy  Land;  but  none  could  tell  in  what  country  he  arrived. 
Whereupon  this  Blondel  resolved  to  make  search  for  him  in 
many  countries,  but  he  would  hear  some  news  of  him;  after 
expence  of  divers  days  in  travell,  he  came  to  a  towne  by  good 
help,  near  to  the  castell  where  his  lord,  King  Richard,  lay.  Of 
his  host  he  demanded  to  whom  the  castell  appertained  ;  and 
the  host  told  him  that  it  belonged  to  the  Duke  of  Austria. 
Then  he  enquired  whether  there  were  any  prisoners  detained 
therein  or  no  ;  for  always  he  made  such  secret  question- 
ings wherever  he  came.  And  the  host  made  answer  that 
there  was  one  only  prisoner,  but  he  knew  not  what  he  was, 
and  yet  he  had  been  detained  there  more  than  the  space  of  a 
year. 

"  When  Blondel  heard  this,  he  wrought  such  means  that  he 
became  acquainted  with  them  of  the  castell,  as  Minstrels  do 
easily  win  acquaintance  anywhere ;  but  see  the  king  he  could 
not,  neither  understand  that  it  was  he. 


ANCIENT  BARDS    AND  MINSTRELS.  23 

**  One  day  he  sat  directly  before  the  window  of  the  castell,  and 
began  to  sing  a  song  in  French  which  King  Richard  and  Blon- 
del  had  sometime  composed  together. 

"  When  King  Richard  heard  the  song,  he  knew  that  it  was 
Blondel  that  sang  it;  and  when  Blondel  paused  at  halfe  of  the 
song,  the  king  began  the  other  halfe  and  completed  it.  Thus 
Blondel  won  the  knowledge  of  the  king,  his  master,  and  return- 
ing home  to  England  made  the  barons  of  the  country  acquainted 
where  the  king  was." 

These  lines  are  given  as  the  original  song. 
Blondel  sings,  — 

**  Your  beauty,  lady  fair. 

None  views  without  delight, 
But  still  so  cold  an  air 

No  passion  can  excite  ; 
Yet  this  I  patient  see. 
While  all  are  shunned  like  me." 

Richard  completes  the  song,  — 

"  No  nymph  my  heart  can  wound, 

If  favor  she  divide, 
And  smile  on  all  around. 

Unwilling  to  decide. 
I  'd  rather  hatred  bear  ^ 

Than  love  with  others  share." 

In  the  reign  of  King  John  it  is  related  that  a  minstrel, 
who  superadded  to  his  other  talents  the  character  of 
soothsayer,  by  his  skill  in  medicated  drugs  and  potions 
was  able  to  rescue  a  knight  from  imprisonment.  In  the 
reign  of  King  Henry  III.  mention  is  made  of  Master  Ri- 
card,  the  king's  harper,  to  whom  in  his  thirtieth  year  that 
monarch  gave  forty  shillings  and  a  pipe  of  wine,  and  also 
a  pipe  of  wine  to  Beatrice  his  wife.  The  title  of  Magister 
or  Master,  —  in  the  Middle  Ages  equivalent  to  the  modern 
title  of  Doctor,  —  given  to  this  man,  shows  his  respectable 
standing.    This  was  in  1252.    The  minstrel,  or  harper, 


24  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

was  at  this  time  a  necessary  attendant  on  a  royal 
personage. 

Prince  Edward,  in  his  crusade  to  the  Holy  Land,  in 
1271,  was  rescued  from  a  Saracen  assassin  bj-  his  harper, 
—  a  fact  proving  him  to  have  been  officiall}'  very  near  the 
royal  person.  Though  this  prince  is  said  in  his  reign 
to  have  treated  the  Welsh  bards  with  great  severity',  in 
his  own  court  the  minstrels  appear  to  have  been  in  high 
favor.  The  king  of  the  minstrels  was,  both  in  England 
and  on  the  Continent,  a  usual  officer  in  the  court  of 
princes,  and  was  on  the  same  footing  with  the  king  at 
arms.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.  the  statute-book  shows 
a  severe  law  passed  against  the  Welsh  bards.  ''  This 
act,"  observes  Percy,  "  shows  that,  far  from  being  extir- 
pated by  the  rigorous  policy  of  Edward  I.,  this  order  of 
men  were  still  able  to  alarm  the  English  Government, 
which  attributed  to  them  '  many  diseases  and  mischiefs  in 
Wales/  and  prohibited  their  meetings  and  contributions." 
When  in  1473  King  Henry  V.  prepared  his  great  voyage 
to  France,  an  express  order  was  given  to  his  minstrels, 
fifteen  in  number,  to  attend  him,  and  to  each  of  them  he 
allowed  12c?.  per  day,  when  that  sum  was  more  than  ten 
times  the  value  it  is  at  present.  Yet  we  are  told  that  at 
his  triumphant  entr}'  into  London,  after  the  battle  of 
Agincourt,  "he  would  not  allow  any  ditties  to  be  made, 
and  sung  b}'  his  minstrels  of  his  glorious  victory,  for  that 
he  would  wholly  have  the  praise  and  thanks  given  al- 
together to  Almighty  God." 

In  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.  we  read  of  a  commission  for 
impressing  boys  and  youths  to  supply  vacancies  by 
death  among  the  king's  minstrels;  *'who  shall  be  ele- 
gant in  their  limbs,  and  well-instructed  in  the  minstrel 
art,  for  the  solace  of  his  Majesty." 

In  all  the  establishments  of  roval  and  noble  households 


ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.       25 

ample  provision  was  made  for  the  minstrels,  and  their 
situation  is  known  to  have  been  both  honorable  and  lucra- 
tive. In  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  the  name 
of  minstrel  was  gradually  appropriated  by  the  musician 
only. 

In  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.  it  was  a  common  entertain- 
ment to  hear  verses  recited  by  a  set  of  men  who  obtained 
their  livelihood  by  repeating  them,  and  who  intruded 
without  ceremony  into  all  companies,  not  only  in  taverns, 
but  in  the  houses  of  the  nobility  themselves ;  and  it  is 
recorded  that  long  after,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  it  was 
usual  in  places  of  assembly  for  the  compan}'  to  be  desir- 
ous to  hear  of  "  old  adventures,  and  valiances  of  noble 
knights  in  times  past,"  as  those  of  King  Arthur,  and  his 
Knights  of  the  Round  Table. 

When  the  Earl  of  Leicester  entertained  Queen  Bess  at 
Kenil worth  Castle,  in  1575,  an  ancient  minstrel  was  one 
of  the  personages  introduced  into  the  pageant.  Bishop 
Percy  gives  us  a  passage,  quoted  from  a  writer  there 
present,  which  affords  a  distinct  idea  of  the  character,  — 
'*a  character  which,"  as  he  remarks,  "  is  far  superior  to 
anything  we  can  at  present  conceive  of  the  writers  of  old 
ballads."  It  may  be  found  in  Percj^'s  "  Reliques,"  vol.  i. 
p.  44. 

In  the  thirtj^-ninth  year  of  Elizabeth  —  though  ro- 
mances sung  to  the  harp  were  still  the  delight  of  the 
common  people  —  this  class  of  men,  who  appear  to  have 
lost  all  credit,  and  to  have  become  strolling  jugglers,  had 
sunk  so  low  in  public  opinion  that  a  statute  was  passed, 
by  which  minstrels  wandering  abroad  were  included 
among  rogues  and  vagabonds  and  sturdy  beggars,  and 
were  adjudged  to  be  punished  as  such.  This  act  seems  to 
have  put  an  end  to  the  profession.  So  long  as  the  min- 
strels subsisted,  like  the  old  Scalds,  they  seem  never  to 


26  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

have  designed  their  rhj'ines  for  literary  publication ;  and 
it  is  supposed  that  they  never  committed  them  to  writing 
themselves.  What  copies  were  preserved  of  them  were 
doubtless  taken  down  from  their  own  mouths.  As  most 
of  the  minstrels  are  represented  to  have  been  of  the 
"  North  Countryee,"  the  old  ballads  are  in  the  Northern 
dialect.  "  They  abound  in  antique  words  and  phrases, 
are  extremely  incorrect,  and  run  into  the  utmost  license 
of  metre ;  the}*  have  also  a  romantic  wildness,  and  are  in 
the  true  spirit  of  chivalry."  The  heroic  song  of  ''Chevy 
Chase,"  which  dates  as  far  back  as  the  time  of  Henry  VI. 
and  had  originally  some  foundation  in  fact,  is  perhaps 
the  most  familiar  and  popular  of  all  the  old  ballads.  "  The 
Nut-Brown  Maid  "  —  an  antique  ballad,  assigned,  I  think, 
to  the  fourteenth  century  —  has  more  beaut}'  of  sentiment 
than  can  be  discovered  in  any  other  composition  of  the 
ancient  minstrels ;  and  it  has  been  remarked  that  "  if  it 
had  no  other  merit  than  having  afforded  the  groundwork 
of  Prior's '  Edwin  and  Emma/  this  ought  alone  to  preserve 
it  from  oblivion." 

The  old  romantic  tale  of  "  Sir  Cauline"  might  be  com- 
mended as  less  gross  than  most  of  the  antique  ballads, 
which  are  for  the  greater  part  marred  by  coarse  allusions 
and  indelicate  passages,  sanctioned  by  the  usage  of  that 
ruder  age,  yet  offensive  to  modern  taste  and  refinement. 
The  ballad  of  "  The  Cruel  Sister,"  compiled  by  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott,  from  a  copy  in  manuscript,  intermixed  with  a 
beautiful  fragment  transcribed  from  the  memory  of  an 
old  woman  who  had  no  recollection  of  the  preceding  or 
concluding  stanzas,  though  savoring  of  the  marvellous, 
is  highly  pathetic,  chaste,  and  musical.  It  is  supposed  to 
have  been  very  popular,  and  may  be  regarded  as  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  most  refined  of  the  old  ballads. 


ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.  27 


THE  CRUEL  SISTER. 

There  were  two  sisters  sat  in  a  bower, 

Binnorie,!  O  Binnorie ! 
There  came  a  knight  to  be  their  wooer, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  with  glove  and  ring, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  1 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  abune  a'  thing, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  with  brooch  and  knife, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  abune  his  life, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
And  sore  envied  her  sister  fair. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  said  to  the  youngest  one, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
♦*  Will  ye  go  see  our  father's  ships  come  in  ?'» 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

She  has  ta'en  her  by  the  lily  hand, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  1 
And  led  her  down  to  the  river  strand, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

The  youngest  stude  upon  a  stone, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
The  eldest  came  and  pushed  her  in, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

1  Pronounced  Binnorie. 


28        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

She  took  her  by  the  middle  sma', 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
And  dashed  her  bonny  back  to  the  jaw, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

*'  Oh,  sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
And  ye  shall  be  heir  of  half  my  land. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie.'* 

"  Oh,  sister,  I  '11  not  reach  my  hand, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
And  I  '11  be  heir  of  all  your  land, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

"  Shame  fa*  the  hand  that  I  should  take, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  ! 
It 's  twin'd  me  and  my  world's  make, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie." 

*'  Oh,  sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  1 
And  sweet  William  shall  be  your  love. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie.'* 

**  Sink  on,  nor  hope  for  hand  nor  glove  ! 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  ! 
And  sweet  William  shall  better  be  my  love, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

*'  Your  cherry  cheeks  and  your  yellow  hair 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  1 
Gau'd  me  gang  maiden  evermore. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie." 

Sometimes  she  sank,  and  sometimes  she  swam, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  1 
Until  she  came  to  the  miller's  dam. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 


ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.  29 

"  Oh,  father,  father,  draw  your  dam  ! 

Binnorie,  O  Biimorie! 
There  's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  milk-white  swan, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie." 

The  miller  hasted  and  drew  his  dam, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
And  there  he  found  a  drowned  woman. 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

You  could  not  see  her  yellow  hair, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  I 
For  gowd  and  pearls  that  were  so  rare, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

You  could  not  see  her  middle  sma', 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  1 
Her  gowden  girdle  was  so  bra' , 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

A  famous  harper  passing  by, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  ! 
The  sweet  pale  face  he  chanced  to  spy. 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

And  when  he  looked  that  lady  on, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  I 
He  sighed  and  made  a  heavy  moan. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

He  made  a  harp  of  her  breast-bone, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie! 
Whose  sounds  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

The  strings  he  framed  of  her  yellow  hair, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie! 
Whose  notes  made  sad  the  listening  ear. 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 


30  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

He  brought  it  to  her  father's  hall  ; 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie! 
And  there  was  the  court  assembled  all, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

He  laid  his  harp  upon  a  stone, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  1 
And  straight  it  began  to  play  alone, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

''  Oh,  yonder  sits  my  father,  the  king, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  I 
And  yonder  sits  my  mother,  the  queen, 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

**  And  yonder  stands  my  brother  Hugh, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ! 
And  by  him  my  William,  sweet  and  true  1  '* 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

But  the  last  tune  that  the  harp  played  then, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  ! 
Was,  "  Woe  to  my  sister,  false  Helen  !  " 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

In  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  as  the  old  minstrel  art 
gradually  wore  out,  a  new  race  of  ballad-writers  succeeded 
who  wrote  narrative  songs  merel}'  for  the  press.  **  These 
later  ballads  have  an  exacter  measure,  a  low  and  subordi- 
nate correctness,  sometimes  bordering  on  the  insipid,  yet 
often  well  adapted  to  the  pathetic."  In  the  reign  of 
James  I.  the  ballads  produced,  which  were  wholly  of  this 
kind,  came  forth  in  such  abundance  that  they  began  to 
be  collected  into  little  miscellanies,  called  Garlands.  In 
the  Pepysian  and  other  libraries  are  preserved  a  great 
number  of  these  in  black-letter,  —  a  term  applied  to  the 
old  English,  or  modern  Gothic  letter,  in  which  the  early 


ANCIENT  BARDS  AND  MINSTRELS.  31 

manuscripts  were  written  and  the  first  English  books 
were  printed  ;  many  of  them  have  the  quaint  and  affected 
titles  peculiar  to  the  age,  and  as  little  religious  tracts  of 
the  same  size  were  called  Penny-Godlinesses,  this  sort  of 
petty  publication  had  ancientl}^  the  name  of  Penny-Merri- 
ments. With  the  decline  of  the  minstrels  and  the  estab- 
lishment of  their  legitimate  successors,  the  ballad-writers, 
ends  the  history  of  these 

"...  skylarks  in  the  dawn  of  years, 
The  poets  of  the  morn." 


82        ENGLISH  POETBY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

EARLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE. 

PURSUING  the  history  of  the  ancient  bards  and  min- 
strels, we  have  rambled  down  to  the  reign  of  James 
I.  Retracing  our  steps,  we  return  to  the  seventh  century 
and  begin  a  formal  history  of  English  poetry  with  the 
earliest  recorded  "  Remains  of  Anglo-Saxon  Verse." 

"  Fragments  of  mutilated  remains,"  Longfellow  calls 
them,  "  which  the  human  mind  has  left  of  itself,  coming 
down  to  us  through  the  times  of  old,  step  by  step,  and 
every  step  a  centur3\  Old  men  and  venerable,''  he  con- 
tinues, "  accompan}'  us  through  the  Past,  and  pausing  at 
the  threshold  of  the  Present,  put  into  our  hands  at  part- 
ing such  written  record  of  themselves  as  they  have.  We 
should  receive  these  things  with  reverence ;  we  should 
respect  old  age." 

It  is  conjectured  that  as  schools  were  established  and 
maintained  throughout  the  Roman_  empire  in  general, 
there  were  doubtless  public  seminaries  in  all  the  principal 
towns  of  Roman  Britain,  though  no  account  of  them  in 
particular  has  been  preserved. 

To  the  ancient  Britons  a  stirring  and  adventurous  life 
had  long  been  habitual.  The  departure  of  the  Romans 
before  the  spirit  of  a  new  and  unaccustomed  intellectual 
activity  ha^  been  sufflcientl3'  diffused  among  them,  left 
them  in  comparative  ease  and  quiet;  and  sunk  in  sloth 
and   silence,  the  love   of  learning  was   gradually  extin- 


EARLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE.      33 

ofuished  in  the  island.  It  is  affirmed  that  at  that  time 
"  absolute  illiteracy,  even  among  the  higher  classes  of  the 
English,  was  no  uncommon  thing." 

In  the  sixth  century  the  controversies  between  the 
Greek  and  Latin  churches  awoke  the  minds  of  men  to 
literary  activity,  and  insensibly  taught  the  graces  of  style 
and  habits  of  composition.  It  is  to  the  faint  sparks  of 
knowledge  kept  alive  at  that  time  in  the  monasteries 
that  we  owe  the  preservation  of  letters  and  the  liberal 
arts  from  total  extinction. 

The  first  Anglo-Saxon  writer  of  note  who  composed  in 
his  own  language,  and  of  whom  there  are  any  remains,  is 
Caedmon,  a  monk  of  Whitby,  who  died  about  680. 

Csedmon  was,  like  Burns,  a  poet  of  Nature's  own  mak- 
ing. The  circumstances  under  which  his  talents  were  first 
developed  are  thus  related :  He  was,  sa3's  the  historian, 
so  much  less  instructed  than  most  of  his  equals  that  he 
had  not  even  learned  any  poetry  ;  so  that  he  was  frequently 
obliged  to  retire,  in  order  to  hide  his  shame,  when  the 
harp  was  moved  toward  him  in  the  hall,  where  at  supper 
it  was  customary  for  each  person  to  sing  in  turn.  On 
one  of  these  occasions  it  happened  to  be  Csedmon's  turn 
to  keep  guard  at  the  stables  during  the  night ;  and  over- 
come with  vexation,  he  quitted  the  table  and  retired  to 
his  post  of  dut}',  where,  laj'ing  himself  down,  he  fell  into 
a  sound  slumber.  In  the  midst  of  his  sleep,  a  stranger 
appeared  to  him,  and  saluting  him  by  name,  said,  "  Caed- 
mon, sing  me  something." 

Csedmon  answered,  "I  know  nothing  to  sing,  for  my 
incapacit}^  in  this  respect  was  the  cause  of  m}'  leaving  the 
hall  to  come  hither." 

*'  Na}',"  said  the  stranger,  "  but  thou  hast  something  to 
sing." 

*'  What  must  I  sing?  "  said  Caedmon. 


34        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  Sing  the  creation,"  was  the  reply. 

Thereupon  Csedmon  began  to  sing  verses  which  he  had 
never  heard  before,  and  which  are  said  to  have  been  as 
follows, 

"  Now  we  shall  praise 
The  Guardian  of  heaven, 
The  might  of  the  Creator, 
And  his  counsel, 
The  Glory-Father  of  men ! 
How  He,  of  all  wonders 
The  Eternal  Lord, 
Formed  the  beginning. 

"  He  first  created 
For  the  children  of  men 
Heaven  as  a  roof, 
The  Holy  Creator ! 
Then,  the  world 
The  Guardian  of  mankind, 
The  Eternal  Lord, 
Produced  afterwards,  — 
The  earth  for  men, 
The  Almighty  Master!  '* 

Csedmon  then  awoke,  and  was  not  only  able  to  repeat 
the  lines  he  had  heard  in  his  sleep,  but  he  continued  them 
in  a  strain  of  admirable  versification. 

In  the  morning  he  hastened  to  the  bailiff  of  Whitby, 
who  carried  him  before  the  Abbess  Hilda,  and  there,  in 
the  presence  of  the  learned  men  of  the  place,  he  told  his 
story,  and  they  were  all  of  opinion  that  he  had  received 
the  gift  of  song  from  heaven.  The}'  then  expounded  to 
him  in  his  mother  tongue  a  portion  of  Scripture,  which  he 
was  required  to  repeat  in  verse. 

Csedmon  went  home  with  his  task ;  and  the  next  morn- 
ing he  produced  a  poem  which  excelled  in  beauty  all  the}^ 
were  accustomed  to  hear.   Afterward,  yielding  to  the  solici- 


EAKLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE.      35 

tations  of  the  Abbess  Hilda,  he  became  an  inmate  of  her 
house,  where  she  ordered  him  to  transfer  into  verse  the 
whole  of  the  sacred  history,  *'  and,"  continues  the  narra- 
tor, "  he  was  continually  occupied  in  repeating  to  himself 
what  he  had  heard,  and  like  a  clean  animal  ruminating  it, 
he  turned  it  into  most  sweet  verse."  He  thus  composed 
man}'  poems  on  the  Bible  history  and  on  miscellaneous 
subjects,  and  some  of  these  have  been  preserved. 

Csedmon  has  been  called  the  father  of  Anglo-Saxon 
poetr3%  because  his  name  stands  first  in  the  history  of 
Saxon  song-craft ;  and  also  the  Milton  of  our  forefathers, 
because  he  sang  of  Lucifer  and  the  loss  of  Paradise.  His 
account  of  the  fall  of  man  resembles  that  given  in  "  Para- 
dise Lost ; "  and  one  passage  in  it  —  the  harangue  of 
Satan  —  it  is  suggested  "  might  almost  be  supposed  to  have 
been  the  foundation  of  a  corresponding  one  in  Milton's 
grand  epic."  The  genuineness  of  these  remains  of  Csed- 
mon's  verse  has  been  called  in  question.  This  account  of 
him  has  indeed  "  a  strong  cast  of  the  marvellous,"  but 
as  competent  judges  have  decided  in  favor  of  their  authen- 
ticity, the3"  are  still  accepted  and  approved. 

The  specimen  given  of  Caedmon  may  serve  as  a  general 
one  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  at  that  age.  As  will  be  observed, 
it  is  not  rhymed,  nor  in  measured  Latin  feet,  and  onlj-  dis- 
tinguished from  prose  b}^  a  very  regular  alliteration. 

In  Csedmon's  "simple  and  childlike  verse"  we  find 
here  and  there  striking  poetic  epithets.  He  calls  the  sky 
"the  roof  of  nations,  the  roof  adorned  with  stars."  His 
Creator  is  "  the  blithe  Heart-king."  A  laugher  is  "a 
laughter-smith,"  and  Ethiopians  a  people  "  brown  with 
the  hot  coals  of  heaven."  Longfellow  happily  observes 
that  "whenever  Caedmon  has  a  battle  to  describe,  he  en- 
ters into  the  matter  with  so  much  spirit  that  one  almost 
imagines  he  sees  looking  from  under  that  monkish  cowl 


36  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

the  visage  of  no  parish  priest,  but  a  grim  war-wolf,  as  the 
brave  were  called  in  the  dajs  when  Csedmon  wrote." 

The  Epic  poem  of  "  Beowulf"  is  an  important  relic  of 
Anglo-Saxon  poetry. 

It  is  written  in  forty-three  cantos  and  some  six  thousand 
lines,  and  is  the  oldest  epic  in  any  modern  language.  Its 
exact  age  is  unknown,  but  it  is  supposed  to  have  been 
written  somewhere  between  the  seventh  and  tenth  cen- 
turies. "Beowulf"  exists  primitively  only  in  a  single 
manuscript  of  the  tenth  centur3\ 

The  poem  is  a  history  of  the  wonderful  adventures  of 
King  Beowulf,  the  Sea-Goth.  It  contains  an  account  of 
his  battles  with  Grendels  and  Fire-drakes,  and  relates 
how,  after  having  made  the  land  rich  with  treasures  found 
in  the  Dragon's  Cave,  he  dies  of  his  wounds.  Longfellow 
esteems  it  "a  poem  of  great  epic  merit.  ...  In  parts," 
he  sa3'S,  *'  it  is  strikingly  graphic  in  description.  As  we 
read,"  he  continues,  "  we  can  almost  smell  the  brine  and 
hear  the  sea-breeze  blow  and  see  the  mainland  stretch  out 
its  jutting  promontories  —  those  sea-noses,  as  the  poet  calls 
them  —  into  the  blue  waters  of  the  solemn  main." 

''Judith  and  Holofernes,"  another  fragment  of  the  poetry 
of  this  period,  is  much  esteemed  by  Anglo-Saxon  scholars. 
This  noble  passage  is  spoken  b}^  an  aged  vassal  over  the 
dead  body  of  the  hero  of  the  poem :  — 

**  Byrhtwold  spoke ;  he  was  an  aged  vassal. 
He  raised  his  shield ;  he  brandished  his  ashen  spear ; 
He  full  boldly  exhorted  the  warriors  : 
'  Our  spirit  shall  be  the  hardier, 
Our  heart  shall  be  the  keener, 
Our  soul  shall  be  the  greater 
The  more  our  forces  diminish. 
Here  lieth  our  chief  all  mangled, 
The  brave  one  in  the  dust ; 
Ever  may  he  lament  his  shame 


EARLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE.      37 

That  thinketh  to  fly 

From  this  play  of  weapons  ! 

Old  am  I  in  life, 

Yet  will  I  not  stir  hence : 

But  I  think  to  lie  by  the  side  of  my  lord. 

That  much  loved  man  ! ' " 

**  The  Fight  of  Finsborough"  is  another  short  and  less 
important  fragment. 

Two  others,  founded  on  the  lives  of  saints,  are  said  to 
exist,  though  they  never  have  been  published. 

Of  much  later  date,  and  in  Norman-Saxon,  is  the  "  Chron- 
icle of  King  Lear."  It  has  no  merit  as  a  poem,  but  is 
important  as  proof  that  the  storj^  of  King  Lear  is  very 
old,  since  it  refers  to  a  previous  account,  —  *'  as  the  book 
telleth."  The  Anglo-Saxons  had  besides  these  long  and 
elaborate  poems  their  odes  and  ballads,  of  which  some 
account  has  been  given  in  an  introductory  chapter. 

More  than  eight  hundred  years  ago,  as  Canute  the  Dane 
—  the  merciless  king  who  used  to  say,  "  He  who  brings 
me  the  head  of  one  of  my  enemies  shall  be  dearer  to 
,  me  than  a  brother  "  —  was  sailing  by  the  Abbey  of  Ely,  he 
heard  the  voices  of  the  monks  chanting  their  holy  vesper 
hymn.  Whereupon,  it  is  related,  he  ordered  his  knights 
to  row  nearer  the  shore,  and  sang  in  his  best  Anglo-Saxon 
the  following  rhyme  :  — 

"  Merry  sang  the  monks  in  Ely, 

As  King  Canute  was  steering  by ; 
Row,  ye  knights,  near  the  land 
And  hear  we  these  monks'  song.'* 

This  simple  song,  that  like  ''  a  leaf  blown  about  by  the 
wind  "  has  come  floating  down  to  us  from  the  past,  has 
little  merit  in  itself,  3'et  reading  it,  as  in  a  fine  old  pic- 
ture we  see  the  rough  **  war- wolf "  leaning  landward  in 
the  dreamy  twilight,  listening,  sobered  and  softened,  while 


38   '  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND   POETS. 

over  the  sunset-sprinkled  waters  float  the  mellow  cadences 
of  the  distant  vesper  h3'mn. 

Then  we  have  in  the  ninth  century  the  "  Metres  of 
King  Alfred,"  translated  from  the  Latin  of  Boethius,  and 
greatly  enriched  with  interspersed  original  matter.  The 
memory  of  "  Alfred  the  Truth-Teller,"  coming  down  to 
us  through  the  discords  of  the  semi-barbarous  ninth  cen- 
tury, is  like  a  strain  of  purest  harmony  ;  and  in  all  English 
history  there  is  no  sublimer  life  than  his.  In  his  charac- 
ter "  the  scholar  and  the  man  outshone  the  king." 

Thus  he  writes:  "I  wished  to  live  honorably  while  I 
lived,  and  after  my  life  to  leave  to  the  men  who  were 
after  me  my  memory  in  good  works.  .  .  .  God  has  made 
all  men  equally  noble  in  their  original  nature.  True  no- 
bility is  in  the  mind,  not  in  the  flesh."  When  Alfred  was 
a  young  man,  there  were  few  or  none,  it  is  said,  among 
his  countrymen  who  could  readil}-  read  the  Latin  language. 
He  was  nearly  forty  years  old  when  he  began  the  study  of 
that  language.  He  died  at  fifty-three.  Many  of  his  trans- 
lations have  come  down  to  us,  and  he  has,  it  is  supposed, 
executed  many  that  are  now  lost.  It  is  recorded  of  King 
Alfred  that  he  devoted  no  less  than  the  eighth  part  of 
his  whole  revenue  to  the  support  of  the  school  which  he 
founded,  to  which  many  of  the  noblemen  repaired  "who 
had  far  outgrown  thei-r  youth,  but  had  not  begun  their 
acquaintance  with  books ; "  for  even  the  royal  charters 
of  that  time  instead  of  the  names  of  kings  sometimes 
exhibit  their  marks !  To  this  school,  in  a  true  spirit  of 
democracy^  he  sent  his  own  son  Ethelward  among  the 
sons  of  the  nobility  and  inferior  classes.  "Every  person 
of  rank  or  substance,  who  either  from  age  or  want  of 
capacity  was  unable  to  learn  to  read  himself,  was  com- 
pelled to  send  either  his  son  or  kinsman,  or  if  he  had 
neither,  a  servant,  that  he  might  be  read  to  by  some  one." 


EARLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE.      39 

And  "  all  this  time,"  we  are  told  that ''  the  brave  old  kino: 
bore  manfully  the  pangs  of  a  terrible  unknown  disease 
that  nothing  could  relieve,"  and  of  which  he  died,  after 
a  glorious  reign  of  thirty-  years.  "  Alfred  the  king,"  he 
says,  quaintly  prefacing  his  "  Metres,"  "  was  translator  of 
this  book,  and  turned  it  from  book-latin  into  English,  as 
he  most  clearly  and  plainlj^  could  amid  the  various  and 
manifold  worldly  occupations  which  often  busied  him  in 
mind  and  body."     He  ends  his  task  with  a  praj'er. 

Some  of  Alfred's  '*  Metres"  have  been  translated  into 
modern  English.  The  original  Anglo-Saxon,  in  which  they 
are  written,  is  barely  intelligible,  even  to  the  scholar. 
*'If  it  is  not  literally  dumb,"  says  Craik,  "its  voice  has 
for  us  of  the  present  day  entirely  lost  its  music.  When 
the  study  of  this  original  form  of  our  national  speech," 
he  continues,  ' '  was  revived  in  England  in  the  middle  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  it  is  supposed  that  at  least  for 
three  preceding  centuries  there  had  been  no  one  able  to 
read  it."  With  Alfred  ends  the  list  of  Anglo-Saxon  poets 
of  that  remote  period.  The  next  three  quarters  of  a  cen- 
tury was  too  troubled  to  admit  of  much  attention  to  litera- 
ture ;  but  in  the  year  1066  the  Norman  influence  infused 
new  life  into  the  half-torpid  native  civilization.  "It  was," 
says  Craik,  "  the  intrusion  of  another  sj^stem  of  social 
organization,  and  of  another  language  possessing  its  own 
literature,  to  take  the  place  of  what  was  passing  away. 
For  the  Norman  was  already  recognized  as  one  of  the 
most  brilliantly  gifted  races,  and  distinguished  for  superior 
aptitude,  both  in  the  arts  of  war  and  peace,  of  polity  and 
song." 

Though  the  dawn  of  the  revival  of  letters  in  England 
is  properly  dated  from  a  point  about  fift}^  3'ears  antecedent 
to  the  Conquest,  still  an  English  writer  almost  con- 
temporary with  the  Conquest,   himself  educated  abroad, 


40        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


describes  his  countrj-men  generally  as  having  been  found  by 
the  Normans  a  rustic  and  almost  illiterate  people.  The 
French  imported  into  England  by  the  Conqueror  and  his 
people  has  been  called  "  a  confused  jargon  of  Teutonic, 
Gaulish,  and  vitiated  Latin."  The  Saxon,  though  still 
spoken  in  the  country-,  was  not  without  various  adulter- 
ations from  the  French.  We  are  told  that  in  the  reign 
of  Henry  II.  the  nobles  constantly  sent  their  children 
into  France,  lest  they  should  contract  habits  of  barbarism 
in  speech.  Of  the  century  following  the  Conquest  is  a 
metrical  translation  by  one  Layamon,  a  priest  of  Ernie}', 
written  in  unmixed  but  barbarous  Saxon. 

It  may  be  considered  as  throwing  a  valuable  light  on 
the  history  of  our  language  at  what  has  been  called  the 
most  important  period  of  its  existence,  being  composed  at 
a  time  when  the  Saxons  and  Normans  in  England  began 
to  unite  into  one  nation,  and  to  adopt  a  common  language. 
''How  little  the  English  language,"  observes  Craik,  "  was 
reall}^  affected  by  foreign  converse,  as  late  as  the  thirteenth 
century,  may  be  shown  by  the  small  amount  of  the  French 
or  Latin  element  found  in  Layamon's  poetry."  He  may 
also  be  regarded  as  the  first  of  a  series  of  writers  who 
about  the  end  of  that  century  began  to  be  conspicuous  in 
our  earl}^  literary  history,  called  "  Rhyming  Chroniclers." 
Layamon's  "  Brut,"  as  the  early  chronicles  of  Britain  were 
called — some  have  supposed  from  Brutus,  the  great  grand- 
son of  ^neas,  who  is  represented  in  them  as  the  first  king 
of  the  Britains ;  others  maintain  from  the  construction  of 
the  word,  which  is  rumor,  report,  and  in  the  secondarj- 
sense  a  chronicle  or  history  —  Layamon's ' '  Brut,"  or  Chroni- 
cle of  Britain  from  the  arrival  of  Brutus  to  the  death  of 
Cadwalader  in  a.  d.  689,  is  in  the  main  a  translation  from 
the  French  "Brut "  of  Wace,  which  is  itself  a  translation  from 
the  Latin  of  GeoflTrey  of  Monmouth,  which,  again,  professes, 


EARLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE.     41 

and  it  is  supposed,  with  truth,  to  be  translated  from  a 
Celtic  original  of  an  unknown  date,  believed  now  to  be 
lost. 

Laj'amon  by  original  additions  has  extended  his  poem  to 
more  than  double  the  length  of  Wace's  ' '  Brut."  Scholars 
have  affirmed  that  La^amon's  style  is  beyond  comparison 
the  most  lofty  and  animated  of  an}^  of  the  rhyming  chroni- 
clers of  his  country,  reminding  the  reader  of  the  splendid 
phraseology  of  Anglo-Saxon  verse.  My  ignorance  of  the 
old  Anglo-Saxon  disqualifies  me  for  forming  a  judgment 
of  this  as  well  as  many  other  early  poems ;  but  scholars 
of  taste,  versed  both  in  Anglo-Saxon  and  Scandinavian 
literature,  and  possessing  such  knowledge  of  its  laws  as 
is  now  attainable,  have  pronounced  it  a  work  conceived 
with  true  poetic  life,  and  not  wanting  in  artistic  elegance 
and  pathos.  It  is  supposed  to  have  been  completed  in  the 
reign  of  King  John,  about  the  year  1205,  as  it  alludes  to 
the  resistance  of  that  king  and  his  nobles  to  the  collec- 
tion of  the  tax  called  Rome-Scot  or  Peter-Pence,  —  an  an- 
nual tribute  formerly  paid  by  the  English  people  to  the 
Pope ;  being  a  penny  for  every  house,  payable  at  Lammas 
Day,  —  the  feast  of  first-fruits,  occurring  on  the  first  day 
of  August. 

The  first  rhyming  chronicler,  after  a  considerable  in- 
terval from  Layamon,  was  a  monk  of  Gloucester  Abbey, 
usually  called  from  that  circumstance  "  Robert  of  Glouces- 
ter." His  chronicle,  a  poem  of  considerable  length,  the 
history  extending  from  Brutus  to  the  reign  of  Edward  I., 
as  a  work  of  art,  or  imagination,  possesses  little  merit. 

Robert  Manning,  a  Gilbertine  canon  in  the  monastery  of 
Brunne,  and  hence  commonly  called  Robert  de  Brunne, 
a  poet  of  this  class,  occurs  in  the  reign  of  Edward  I.  in 
the  year  1303.  He  informs  his  readers  that  he  is  more 
studious   of  truth   than   ornament,    and   that   aiming  to 


42        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

give  information  rather  than  pleasure,  he  has  avoided 
the  phraseology  then  used  by  the  minstrels  and  harpers. 
He  is  thought  to  have  succeeded  admirably,  as  his  chroni- 
cle, though  it  was  intended  to  be  sung,  at  least  b}-  parts, 
at  public  festivals,  is  as  barren  of  true  Parnassian  fire  as 
that  of  his  predecessor,  Robert  of  Gloucester.  "  Uncouth 
and  unpleasing,"  observes  Warton,  "  and  chiefly  emplo^-ed 
in  turning  the  theology  of  his  age  into  rhyme,  he  contrib- 
uted to  form  a  style  to  teach  expression  and  to  polish 
his  native  tongue.  In  the  infancy  of  language  nothing  is 
wanted  but  writers ;  at  that  period  even  the  most  artless 
have  their  use." 

The  immediate  predecessors  of  Chaucer  are  Lawrence 
Minot,  who  about  1350  composed  a  series  of  short  poems 
on  the  victories  of  Edward  III.,  that  have  been  commended 
for  the  ease,  variet}',  and  harmony  of  their  versification  ; 
Richard  Rolle,  a  hermit  and  D.D.,  who  wrote  metrical 
paraphrases  of  certain  parts  of  Scripture,  and  a  dull  orig- 
inal, moral  poem  entitled  ''The  Pricke  of  Conscience;" 
and  Robert  Langland,  a  secular  priest,  the  author  of  a 
satirical  poem  entitled  "The  Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman." 
It  has  been  observed  that  the  tendency  of  our  poetical 
literature  from  the  days  of  the  Proven  gal  troubadours 
has  been  anti-Roman.  The  poem  of  Langland,  though 
produced  nearly  two  centuries  before  either  Protestantism 
or  Puritanism  was  ever  heard  of,  is  almost  a  puritanical 
and  Protestant  work.  The  satire  and  invective  in  his 
poem  is  directed  altogether  against  the  clergy  and  espe- 
cially^ against  the  monks  and  friars.  Piers,  or  Peter,  is 
represented  as  a  poor  ploughman  who  falls  asleep  upon 
Malvern  Hills  "on  a  May  morn3'nge,"  and  in  his  dream 
or  vision  is  divinel}'  enlightened,  and  receives  that  in- 
struction in  Christian  truth  which  he  had  sought  for  in 
vain  from  every  order  of  the  Church.      The  "Vision  of 


EARLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE.      43 

Piers  Ploughman "  as  a  poem  has  no  high  merit,  but  is 
distinguished  as  being  the  earliest  original  work  of  any 
magnitude  in  the  present  form  of  the  language,  and  as 
showing  the  progress  which  was  made  about  the  middle 
of  the  fourteeenth  century  toward  a  literary  style.  As 
the  popular  representative  of  those  doctrines  which  were 
silently  bringing  about  the  Reformation,  it  is  considered 
in  many  points  of  view  as  one  of  the  most  important 
works  that  appeared  in  England  previous  to  the  art  of 
printing. 

"As  we  approach  Chaucer,"  sa3's  Warton,  "let  us 
stand  still  and  take  a  retrospect  of  the  general  manners." 
It  may  be  well  to  do  so,  quoting  largely  from  that  learned 
and  elegant  though  at  times  tediously  minute  author, 
and  adding  from  various  sources  whatever  might  seem  to 
illustrate  the  subject.  "  The  tournaments  and  carousals 
of  our  ancient  princes,"  he  observes,  "  by  forming  splen- 
did assemblies  of  both  sexes,  while  they  inculcated  the 
most  liberal  sentiment  of  honor  and  heroism,  undoubtedly 
contributed  to  introduce  ideas  of  courtesy  and  decorum. 
Yet  the  national  manners  still  retained  a  degree  of  ferocit}'', 
and  the  ceremonies  of  the  most  refined  courts  in  Europe  had 
often  a  mixture  of  barbarism  which  rendered  them  ridicu- 
lous. Their  luxury  was  inelegant,  their  pleasures  indeli- 
cate, and  their  pomp  cumbersome  and  unwieldy ; "  those 
powers  of  the  intellect,  we  might  add,  which  teach  elegant 
feelings  and  heighten  our  natural  sensibility,  lay  unawak- 
ened,  like  the  spell-bound  princess  in  the  fairy  tale,  await- 
ing the  touch  of  the  fated  enchanter  Imagination. 

It  has  been  observed  that  the  scarcity  of  valuable  books 
in  England  was  a  serious  obstruction  to  the  revival  of 
letters. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  seventh  century  an  English 
abbot,  who  with  incredible  labor  and  immense  expense 


44        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


had  collected  an  hundred  volumes  on  theological  and  fifty 
on  profane  subjects,  imagined  he  had  formed  a  splendid 
library ! 

Among  the  constitutions  given  to  the  monks  of  England, 
in  the  j^ear  1092,  the  following  injunction  occurs:  "At 
the  beginning  of  Lent  the  librarian  is  ordered  to  deliver 
a  book  to  each  of  the  religious.'*  A  whole  year  is  given 
for  the  perusal  of  the  book,  and  at  the  returning  Lent 
those  monks  who  had  neglected  to  read  the  books  the}^ 
had  respectively  received,  are  recommended  to  prostrate 
themselves  before  the  abbot,  and  to  supplicate  his 
Indulgence. 

In  this  age  of  cheap  and  too  often  trashy  literature, 
we  can  hardly  believe  that  when  a  book  was  bought  in 
those  olden  times,  it  was  customary  to  assemble  persons 
of  consequence  and  character,  and  to  make  a  formal  record 
that  they  were  present  on  this  occasion.  If  a  person  gave 
a  book  to  a  religious  house,  he  beheved  that  so  valuable  a 
donation  merited  eternal  salvation,  and  offered  it  on  the 
altar  with  great  ceremony. 

Living  at  this  favored  period  in  human  progress,  when 
book-making  is  facilitated  b}^  inventive  genius ;  when  our 
clever  inventors  cunningly  devise  type-setting  machines, 
that  put  us  in  print  as  deftly  as  the  frost  etches  his  sil- 
very landscapes  on  our  windows  in  the  still  winter  moon- 
light, —  we  can  hardly  conceive  the  weary  hours  of  intense 
labor  that  must  have  been  given  to  the  production  of  a 
single  book  before  the  art  of  printing  became  known  to 
our  ancestors.  Take,  for  example,  the  Holy  Scriptures 
alone,  which  so  many  zealous  monks  have  spent  their 
entire  lives  in  transcribing  and  illuminating.  In  Long- 
fellow's "  Golden  Legend"  we  find  a  beautiful  and  graphic 
picture  of  a  monk  in  the  scriptorium  of  his  convent,  tran- 
scribing and  illuminating  a  manuscript  of  the  Gospels,  which 


ifh..   1 


EARLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE.      45 

vividly  impresses  upon  us  the  arduous  labor  of  such  a  work, 
and  the  fervor  with  which  it  may  have  been  pursued. 

It  is  recorded  that  the  library-  of  the  University  of  Ox- 
ford, so  late  as  the  year  1300,  consisted  only  of  a  few 
books  chained,  or  kept  in  chests,  in  the  choir  of  St.  Mary's 
church ;  and  though  the  invention  of  paper  toward  the 
close  of  the  eleventh  century  contributed  to  multiply  manu- 
scripts and  consequently  to  facilitate  knowledge,  even  so 
late  as  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.,  Warton  discovers  this 
instance  of  the  impediments  to  stud}',  which  must  have 
been  produced  by  the  scarcity  of  books.  "  One  of  the 
statutes  of  St.  Mary's  College  is  this :  '  Let  no  scholar 
occupy  a  book  in  the  library  above  one  hour,  or  two  hours 
at  most,  so  that  others  shall  be  hindered  from  the  use  of 
the  same.' " 

For  three  centuries  after  the  decay  of  the  earliest  Eng- 
lish scholarship,  at  its  height  among  our  Saxon  ancestors 
about  the  ninth  century,  owing  almost  entirelj^  to  the 
efforts  of  good  King  Alfred,  the  principal  productions 
of  the  most  eminent  monasteries  were  incredible  legends 
which  discovered  no  marks  of  invention,  unedifying  homi- 
lies and  trite  expositions  of  the  Scripture.  Many  bishops 
and  abbots  began  to  consider  learning  as  pernicious  to 
true  piety,  confounding  illiberal  ignorance  with  Christian 
simplicity.  In  the  mean  time,  from  perpetual  commotions, 
the  manners  of  the  people  had  degenerated  from  that  mild- 
ness which  a  short  interval  of  peace  and  letters  had  intro- 
duced. In  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  century  England 
at  last  received  from  the  Normans  the  rudiments  of  that 
cultivation  which  it  has  preserved  to  the  present  time. 

The  Conqueror,  we  are  told,  was  himself  a  lover  and 
patron  of  letters.  He  filled  the  bishoprics  and  abbacies 
of  England  with  the  most  learned  of  his  countrymen,  who 
had  been  educated  at  the  University  of  Paris,  at  that  time 


46  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

the  most  flourishing  school  in  Europe.  Geoffrey,  a  learned 
Norman,  was  invited  from  that  university  to  superintend 
the  direction  of  the  school  of  the  prior}"  of  Dunstable,  where 
he  composed  a  play  called  "The  Play  of  Saint  Katharine^" 
which  was  acted  by  his  scholars.  Warton  supposes  this 
to  be  the  first  spectacle  of  the  kind  ever  attempted,  and 
the  first  trace  of  theatrical  representation  which  appeared 
in  England.  It  is  related  that  he  borrowed  copes  from  the 
sacrist  of  the  neighboring  abbey  of  St.  Albans  to  dress 
his  characters. 

After  the  Norman  Conquest,  though  the  Conqueror  him- 
self was,  it  is  said,  far  from  showing  any  aversion  to  the 
English  language,  and  when  he  first  came  over,  applied 
himself  to  learn  it,  that  he  might  without  the  aid  of  an  in- 
terpreter understand  the  causes  that  were  pleaded  before 
him,  persevering  in  his  endeavor  "  till  a  more  iron  time 
of  necessity  compelled  him  to  give  it  up,"  the  exclusive 
language  of  government  and  legislation  was  French.  ' '  The 
whole  land,"  says  an  old  writer,  '*  began  to  lay  aside  the 
English  customs  and  to  imitate  the  manners  of  the  French 
in  many  things  ;  for  example,  all  the  nobility  in  their  courts 
began  to  speak  French,  as  a  great  piece  of  gentility,  and  to 
draw  up  their  charters  and  other  writings  after  the  French 
fashion  ; "  and  he  adds  that  *'  they  [the  Normans]  held  the 
language  of  the  natives  in  such  abhorrence  that  to  bo3'S 
in  the  schools  the  elements  of  grammar  were  taught  in 
French  and  not  in  English." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  for  some  ages  after  the  Con- 
quest the  French  was  the  only  language  spoken  by  kings 
and  the  nobilit}'.  Ritson  aflSrms  that  neither  William  the 
Bastard,  his  son,  Rufus  the  Red,  his  daughter  Maud,  nor 
his  nephew  Stephen,  did  or  could  speak  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  or  English  language.  It  is  supposed  that  the 
two  Henrys  I.  and  II.  had  some  knowledge  of  the  Eng- 


EARLIEST  REMAINS  OF  ANGLO-SAXON  VERSE.      47 

lish  language,  though  the}^  might  not  be  able  to  speak 
it.  Richard  I.  did  not  know  a  word  of  English.  We 
find  no  important  fact  relating  to  this  subject  in  connec- 
tion with  John ;  but  it  is  asserted  that  in  no  instance 
was  Henry  III.  known  to  have  expressed  himself  in  Eng- 
lish. Edward  I.  constantly  spoke  the  French  language ; 
Edward  II.  married  a  French  princess  and  himself  used 
the  French  tongue ;  and  there  is  on  record  only  a  single 
instance  of  Edward  III.'s  use  of  the  English  language. 
He  appeared  in  1349  in  a  tournament  at  Canterbur}'  with 
a  white  swan  for  his  impress,  and  this  motto  embroidered 
on  his  shield,  which  is  so  heartily  English  that  one  could 
imagine  it  the  very  roar  of  the  old  Lion  himself :  — 

"  Hay,  Hay,  the  wythe  swan ! 
By  Godes  soul  I  am  thy  man ! " 

"Yet  under  all  these  disadvantages,  the  national  tongue,'* 
observes  Craik,  "  possessing  as  it  did  the  one  onl}^  great 
advantage  of  being  the  ancestral  speech  of  the  people,  and 
having  a  substantial  existence  in  poems  and  histories,  the 
memory  of  its  old  renown  could  not  altogether  pass  away  ; 
and  after  a  time,  though  in  an  altered  form,  we  find  it 
again  employed  in  writing." 


48  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CHAUCER. 


1 


AT  the  time  when  Chaucer  wrote,  in  the  latter  half  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  the  two  languages,  —  French 
and  English, — like  the  two  nations,  had  become  widelj' 
separated.  The  French  had  gone  almost  entirely  out  of  use 
as  a  medium  of  common  conversation,  —  though  still  the 
speech  of  the  court,  —  and  the  English  had,  by  throwing  off 
most  of  its  primitive  rudeness,  become  more  fit  for  literary 
composition.  Chaucer,  with  true  nobility  of  soul,  "  made 
choice  of  the  people's  speech,  rather  than  the  Latin  of  the 
learned,  or  the  French  of  the  noble." 

"  The  King's  English"  he  called  it.  Thus  he  quaintly- 
saj^s :  ''Let  then  clerkes  enditen  in  Latin,  for  they  have 
the  property  of  science,  and  the  knowing  of  that  faculty  ; 
and  let  Frenchmen  also  enditen  their  queint  termes,  for  it 
is  kindly  to  their  mouths  ;  and  let  us  shew  our  fantasies  in 
such  words  as  we  learnden  of  our  Dame-tongue,"  —  advice 
that  might  not  come  amiss  in  our  own  day. 

Langland,  whose  "Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman"  has  been 
noticed  in  the  preceding  chapter,  was  our  earliest  original 
writer ;  5^et  though  his  "Vision"  is  written  in  verse,  it  is  not 
poetry.  Langland  had  but  sipped  at  Helicon ;  Chaucer 
drank  deep  and  long.  He  was  England's  first  great  poet, 
"  the  true  father  of  our  literature,  compared  with  whose 
productions  all  that  precedes  is  barbarism." 


CHAUCER.  49 

"  The  notion  which  most  people  have  of  Chancer,"  says  Craik, 
"  is  merely  that  he  was  a  remarkably  good  poet  for  his  day,  but 
that  both  from  his  language  having  become  obsolete,  and  from 
the  advancement  which  we  have  since  made  in  poetical  taste 
and  skill,  he  may  now  be  considered  as  fairly  dead  and  buried 
in  a  literary,  as  well  as  in  a  literal,  sense.  Now,  instead  of 
this,  the  poetry  of  Chaucer  is  really  in  all  essential  respects 
about  the  greenest  and  freshest  in  our  language.  He  may  be 
said  to  verify  the  remark  of  Bacon  that '  what  we  commonly 
call  antiquity  was  really  the  youth  of  the  world;'  his  poetry 
seems  to  breathe  of  a  time  when  humanity  was  younger  and 
more  joyous-hearted  than  it  now  is.  The  sire  of  a  nation's 
minstrelsy,  he  has  looked  upon  the  glorious  face  of  Nature  un- 
veiled. It  is  he  alone  who  has  conversed  with  her  directly  and 
without  an  interpreter,  and  received  upon  his  heart  the  perfect 
image  of  what  she  is.  Succeeding  poets  are  but  imitators  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree.  They  are  the  fallen  race,  who  have  been 
banished  from  the  immediate  presence  of  the  divinity;  he  is 
the  first  man,  who  has  seen  God  walking  in  the  garden,  and 
communed  with  him  face  to  face." 

A  serious  obstacle  to   the  general  appreciation  of  the 
works  of  this  great   poet  is  the  now  obsolete  dialect  in/ 
which  he  wrote.  / 

It  has  been  remarked,  and  with  truth,  that  "  if  Chaucer's 
poems  had  been  written  in  Hebrew,  they  would  have  been 
a  thousand  times  better  known,  for  they  would  have  been 
translated."  Many  educated  persons  and  scholars  are 
repelled  by  his  antiquarian  English,  —  "that  strange  cos- 
tume of  diction,  grammar,  and  spelling,  in  which  his 
thoughts  are  clothed,  and  which,"  it  has  been  aptly  said, 
"  flutter  about  them  like  the  rags  upon  a  scarecrow." 
Yet  to  those  who  have  the  patience  to  master  the  difficul- 
ties of  the  antiquated  English,  which  though  not  a  dead 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  a  living  language,  Chaucer's 
poems   will   yield   an   abundant   reward.      Chaucer   was 


50        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

born  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III.,  it  is  supposed  about  the 
year  1328,  and  educated  at  Oxford,  where  it  is  said  he 
made  a  rapid  progress  in  the  scholastic  sciences  as  they 
were  then  taught ;  but  "  the  liveUness  of  his  parts  and  the 
native  gayety  of  his  disposition  soon  recommended  him  to 
the  patronage  of  that  magnificent  monarch  of  whose  reign, 
as  well  as  of  that  of  his  successor,  Richard  II. ,  he  was  the 
most  illustrious  ornament." 

Chaucer  was  a  man  of  the  world.  He  frequentlj^  visited 
France  and  Italy  under  the  advantages  of  a  public  char- 
acter. Familiar  with  the  practices  and  diversions  of  court- 
ly life,  he  was  enabled  to  enrich  his  works  with  those 
descriptions  of  splendid  processions  and  gallant  carousals 
with  which  they  abound.  Enabled  by  his  travels  to  culti- 
vate the  Italian  and  Provengal  languages,  "he^  polished 
and  enriched  his  native  versification  with  loftier  cadences 
and  a  more  copious  and  various  phraseology."  Since  he 
first  taught  his  countrymen  to  write  English,  and  by  natu- 
ralizing words  from  the  Proven§al  (then  the  most  polished 
dialect  of  anj-  in  Europe),  formed  a  style,  he  maj'  claim  to 
be  the  father  of  English  composition.  Chaucer  was  an 
universal  reader;  and  it  has  been  remarked  that  "his 
learning  is  sometimes  mistaken  for  genius."  His  chief 
sources  were  the  French  and  Italian  poets.  His  Knight's 
Tale  is  a  translation,  or  imitation,  from  the  Italian  of 
Boccaccio.  In  passing  through  his  hands  it  has  received 
new  beauties.  His  "  Romaunt  of  the  Rose"  is  from  the 
French,  and  highly  esteemed  b}-  them  as  one  of  the  most 
valuable  pieces  of  their  old  poetr3\  Chaucer  is  thought 
greatly  to  have  improved  the  original,  and  to  have  enriched 
the  allegorical  figures  in  the  poem,  parts  of  which  owe  all 
their  merit  to  the  translator.  Chaucer's  poem  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Troilus  and  Cressida  has  been  greatly  admired.  The 
fine  passage  in  which  "  Cresside  makes  an  avowal  of  her 


CHAUCER.  51 

love  has  been  much  quoted  and  praised.  His  version  of 
the  legend  of  Ariadne  displa3's  in  many  fine  strokes  his 
delicate  poetic  insight,  as  when  —  Ariadne  awakening 
from  her  swoon  to  find  herself  forsaken  by  Theseus  —  the 
poet  says  of  her,  — 

"After  a  time  she  rose,  and  kissed  with  care 
His  footmarks  on  the  sand,  which  she  found  there." 

Poor  Ariadne  !     We  rejoice  at  last  when  the  poet  tells  us 

that  — 

"  The  throned  gods  on  her  their  pity  took  ; 
And  in  the  sign  of  Taurus,  if  you  look, 
You  may  behold  her  starry  crown  shine  clear." 

For  Chaucer's  "  House  of  Fame  "  no  foreign  original  has 
been  discovered,  although  Warton  supposes  it  may  have 
been  translated  or  paraphrased  from  the  Proven9al.  It  is 
in  three  books,  comprising  in  all  twentj'-one  hundred  and 
ninety  lines.  The  reference  which  Chaucer  is  supposed  to 
make  in  this  poem  to  the  circumstances  of  his  own  life 
and  the  various  learning  and  knowledge  with  which  it  is 
interspersed,  —  such  as  an  explanation  of  the  doctrine  of 
gravitation,  and  a  discourse  on  the  production  and  propa- 
gation of  sound,  —  make  it  an  exceedingly  interesting  poem. 
Its  strong  delineation  of  crowded  and  variegatecl  dramatic 
life  is  praised.  It  is  in  "  The  Canterbury  tales  "  of  Chaucer 
that  we  behold  the  fully  rounded  and  ripened  poet.  This 
great  work  forms  the  ever-enduring  monument  of  his  genius, 
and,  as  has  been  aptly  remarked,  "towers  above  all  else 
that  he  has  written  like  some  palace  or  cathedral  ascend- 
ing with  its  broad  and  lofty  dimensions  from  among  the 
common  buildings  of  a  city."  Chaucer  is  supposed  to  have 
been  about  sixt}^  years  of  age  when  he  composed  "  The  Can- 
terburj^  tales."  Let  us  then  not  fear  the  bugbear  age,  — 
which  is  but  another  name  for  development. 


62        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

The  work  has  this  origin :  A  company  of  pilgrims,  con- 
sisting of  twenty-nine,  meet  together  in  fellowship  at  an 
inn,  all  being  bent  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  Thomas  a 
Becket  at  Canterbury.  These  pilgrimages  are  represented 
as  scenes  of  much  enjo3'ment  and  hilarity  ;  the  devotees, 
having  at  the  outset  thwarted  the  Evil  One,  did  not  con- 
sider it  necessar}^  to  resist  him  by  the  wa}',  and  might 
therefore  consistently  put  aside  any  religious  strictness  or 
restraint.  They  all  sup  together,  and  after  great  cheer 
the  Landlord  proposes  that  they  shall  travel  together  to 
Canterbury ;  and  to  shorten  their  way,  that  each  shall  tell 
two  tales,  both  in  going  and  returning,  and  whoever  told 
the  best  should  have  a  supper  at  the  expense  of  the  rest. 

Mine  host,  ''both  bold  of  speech,  wise  and  well- 
taught,"  is  appointed  judge  and  reporter  of  the  stories. 
The  work,  as  we  can  readily  infer  from  the  plan,  —  which 
if  carried  out  would  have  afforded  us  no  less  than  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  tales, — is  unfinished;  but  it  contains 
twenty-four  tales,  including  two  in  rhythmical  prose.  These 
tales  are  interspersed  with  prologues,  besides  the  prologue 
to  the  whole  work,  in  which  the  pilgrims  are  severall^^  de- 
scribed. This  general  prologue  has  been  pronounced  ''  a 
gallery  of  pictures  almost  unmatched  for  their  air  of  life 
and  truthfulness." 

I  borrow  a  few  of  these  pictures  from  Home's  "  Chaucer 
Modernized,"  —  a  work  to  which  Powell,  Wordsworth, 
Leigh  Hunt,  and  Mrs.  Browning  have  contributed.  In  the 
antiquated  English  Chaucer  is  indeed  not  generall}-  appre- 
ciated, though  one  of  his  admirers  has  expressed  a  wish 
to  retain  him  in  that  ancient  costume  "  for  himself  and  a 
few  friends." 

OF  A  CLERK. 

A  Clerk  there  was  from  Oxford,  in  the  press. 
Who  in  pure  logic  placed  his  happiness. 


CHAUCER.  53 

His  horse  was  lean  as  any  garden  rake ; 

And  he  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake. 

But  hollow  looked,  and  sober  and  ill  fed. 

His  uppermost  shirt  cloak  was  a  bare  thread, 

For  he  had  got  no  benefice  as  yet, 

Nor  for  a  worldly  ofl&ce  was  he  fit. 

For  he  would  rather  have  at  his  bed's  head 

Some  twenty  volumes,  clothed  in  black  and  red, 

Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophy, 

Than  richest  robes,  fiddle,  or  psaltery. 

But  though  a  true  philosopher  was  he, 

Yet  had  he  little  gold  beneath  his  key; 

But  every  farthing  that  his  friends  e'er  lent. 

In  books  and  learning  was  it  always  spent ; 

And  busily  he  prayed  for  the  sweet  souls 

Of  those  who  gave  him  wherewith  for  the  schools. 

He  bent  on  study  his  chief  care  and  heed  ; 

Not  a  word  spake  he  more  than  there  was  need, 

And  this  was  said  with  firm  and  gravest  stress. 

And  short  and  quick,  full  of  sententiousness. 

Sounding  in  moral  virtue  was  his  speech ; 

And  gladly  would  he  learn  and  gladly  teach. 

Scott  must  have  found  here  the  model  for  his  Dominie 
Sampson. 

Equally  well  drawn  is  this  familiar  picture  of  a  good 

parson :  — 

"  A  good  man  of  Religion  did  I  see, 
And  a  poor  parson  of  a  town  was  he  ; 
But  rich  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  work. 
He  also  was  a  learned  man,  a  clerk, 
And  truly  would  Christ's  holy  gospel  preach. 
And  his  parishioners  devoutly  teach. 
Benign  he  was,  and  wondrous  diligent 
And  patient  when  adversity  was  sent ; 
Such  had  he  often  proved,  and  loath  was  he 
To  cruse  for  tythes  and  ransack  poverty. 
But  rather  would  he  give,  there  is  no  doubt. 
Unto  his  poor  parishioners  about, 


64  JlNGLISn  POETRY  AND   POETS. 

Of  his  own  substance,  and  his  offerings  too. 
His  wants  were  humble,  and  his  needs  were  few. 
Wide  was  his  parish  —  houses  far  asunder  — 
But  he  neglected  nought  for  rain  or  thunder, 
In  sickness  and  in  grief  to  visit  all 
The  farthest  in  his  parish,  great  and  small. 
Always  on  foot,  and  in  his  hand  a  stave. 
This  noble  example  to  his  flock  he  gave, 
That  first  he  wrought,  and  afterwards  he  taught. 
Out  of  the  Gospel  he  that  lesson  caught. 
And  this  new  figure  added  he  thereto,  — 
That  if  Gold  rust,  then  what  should  Iron  do  1 
And  if  a  priest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  trust. 
No  wonder  if  an  ignorant  man  should  rust ; 
And  shame  it  is,  if  that  a  priest  take  keep, 
To  see  an  obscene  shepherd,  and  clean  sheep. 
Well  ought  a  priest  to  all  example  give, 
By  his  pure  conduct,  how  his  sheep  should  live. 

He  let  not  out  his  benefice  for  hire. 
Leaving  his  flock  encumbered  in  the  mire, 
While  he  ran  up  to  London,  to  St.  Paul's, 
Seeking  a  well-paid  chanterey  for  souls. 
Or  with  a  loving  friend  his  pastime  hold ; 
But  dwelt  at  home,  and  tended  well  his  fold. 
So  that  to  foil  the  wolf  he  was  right  wary. 
He  was  a  shepherd,  and  no  mercenary ;  ^ 

And  though  he  holy  was,  and  virtuous. 
He  was  to  sinful  men  full  piteous. 
His  words  were  strong,  but  not  with  anger  fraught ; 
A  lore  benignant  he  discreetly  taught. 
To  draw  mankind  to  heaven  by  gentleness 
And  good  example  was  his  business. 
But  if  that  any  one  was  obstinate. 
Whether  he  were  of  high  or  low  estate. 
Him  would  he  sharply  check,  with  altered  mien  : 
A  better  parson  there  was  nowhere  seen. 
He  paid  no  court  to  pomps  and  reverence, 
Nor  spiced  his  conscience  at  his  soul's  expense  ; 
But  Jesu's  lore,  which  owns  no  pride  or  pelf, 
He  taught  —  but  first  he  followed  it  himself." 


CHAUCER.  55 

Goldsmith,  in  his  "  Deserted  Village,"  must  have  had  in 
mind  this  parson  when  he  described  the  village  preacher. 
They  have  some  beautiful  traits  in  common. 

In  the  Friar's  Tale,  Chaucer  thus  shrewdly  makes  Satan 
acknowledge  the  beneficence  of  evil :  — 

"  A  Devil  must  do  God's  work,  'twixt  you  and  me  ; 
For  without  him,  albeit  to  our  loathing, 
Strong  as  we  go,  we  devils  can  do  nothing. 
Though  to  our  prayers  sometimes  he  giveth  leave 
Only  the  body,  not  the  soul,  to  grieve. 
Witness  good  Job,  whom  nothing  could  make  wroth. 
And  sometimes  have  we  power  to  harass  both ; 
And  then  again,  soul  only  is  possest, 
And  body  free ;  and  all  is  for  the  best. 
Full  many  a  sinner  would  have  no  salvation 
Gat  he  not  it  by  standing  our  temptation. 
Though  God  he  knows,  *t  was  far  from  our  intent 
To  save  the  man ;  his  howl  was  what  we  meant." 

**  In  these  tales,"  says  Warton,  "  Chaucer's  knowledge  of 
the  world  availed  him  in  a  peculiar  degree,  and  enabled  him 
to  give  such  an  accurate  picture  of  ancient  manners  as 
no  contemporary  nation  has  transmitted  to  posterity.  It  is 
here  we  view  the  pursuits  and  employments,  the  customs 
and  diversions,  of  our  ancestors,  copied  from  the  life,  and 
represented  with  equal  truth  and  spirit.  The  figures  are 
all  British,  and  bear  no  suspicious  signatures  of  classical, 
Italian,  or  French  imitation." 

"  What  an  intimate  scene  of  English  life  in  the  four- 
teenth century,"  says  Campbell,  *'  do  we  enjoy  in  these 
tales,  beyond  what  history  displays  by  glimpses,  through 
the  stormy  atmosphere  of  her  scenes,  or  the  antiquary  can 
discover  by  the  cold  light  of  his  researches ! "  Of  this 
national  work,  which  embodies  Chaucer's  native  genius, 
unassisted  and  unalloyed,  his  contemporaries  and  their  sue- 


56        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


cessors  were  justl}*  proud.  Maoy  copies  existed  in  manu- 
script ;  and  when  the  art  of  printing  first  came  to  England, 
one  of  the  first  duties  of  Caxton's  press  was  to  issue  an 
impression  of  these  tales,  which  first  gave  literary  per- 
manence and  consistency  to  the  language  and  poetry  of 
England. 

The  versions  of  Chaucer  given  by  Pope  and  Dryden  are 
elaborate  and  highly  finished  productions ;  but  Chaucer 
being  the  most  simple  and  natural  of  poets,  as  they  were 
the  most  sounding  and  artificial,  they  are,  properly  speak- 
ing, paraphrases  bearing  but  the  faintest  resemblance  to 
the  great  poet.  Other  and  inferior  poets  have  grossly  muti- 
lated his  finest  passages  of  pathos  and  humor.  The  most 
rational  attempt  to  render  Chaucer  intelligible  is  the  later 
work  of  Home,  to  which  allusion  has  already  been  made ; 
here  we  have  the  poet's  thought  bereft  of  the  obsolete 
dialect  which  naturallj^  repels  many  lovers  of  good  poetry-. 

Chaucer  was  a  student,  a  soldier,  and  a  courtier ;  often 
employed  in  public  affairs  of  delicacy  and  importance  ;  and 
as  his  fortunes  rose  and  fell  with  those  of  his  king,  he  saw 
many  bitter  reverses.  He  accompanied  the  army  of  Ed- 
ward III.  when  it  invaded  France,  and  was  made  prisoner 
in  the  year  1359  at  the  siege  of  Betters. 

At  the  age  of  forty-one  he  married  —  after  a  long  and 
faithful  attachment,  which  appears  to  have  been  as  faith- 
fully returned  —  Philippa  de  Rouet,  one  of  the  queen's 
maids  of  honor,  whose  dut}"  to  her  ro3'al  mistress  pre- 
vented her  marriage  till  by  the  queen's  death  she  was 
released  from  a  prior  obligation,  and  left  free  to  follow  her 
own  sweet  will.  The  union  —  as  we  might  infer  —  was  a 
most  happy  one. 

Chaucer  is  supposed  to  have  resided,  when  at  home, 
in  a  house  granted  by  the  king,  near  the  royal  manor  at 
Woodstock,  surrounded  with   every  mark  of  luxury  and 


CHAUCER.  57 

distinction.     The  venerable  oaks  yet  shade  the  spot  where 
it  is  said  his  morning  walii  may  still  be  traced. 

"  O  rock  upon  their  towery  tops 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 
All  starry  culmination  drop 

Balm  dews  to  bathe  their  feet ! " 

In  the  reign  of  Richard  II.,  on  the  25th  of  October,  1400, 
the  poet  died  in  London,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  the  first  of  that  illustrious  file  of  poets  whose 
ashes  consecrate  and  enrich  the  sacred  edifice.  The  char- 
acter of  Chaucer,  which  may  be  seen  in  his  works,  is  thus 
faithfully  portra3'ed  :  "  He  was  the  counterpart  of  Shake- 
speare in  cheerfulness  and  benignity  of  disposition  ;  no 
enemy  to  mirth  and  joviality,  yet  dehghting  in  his  books, 
and  studious  in  the  midst  of  an  active  life.  He  was  an 
enemy  to  superstition  and  priestly  abuse.  He  retained 
through  life  his  strong  love  of  the  country,  and  its  inspir- 
ing and  invigorating  influences.  The  month  of  May  was 
always  a  carnival  in  his  heart  and  fancy.  '  Hard  is  his 
heart,'  he  sings,  '  that  loveth  nought  in  May.' " 

Critics  place  Chaucer  in  the  first  class  of  poetry,  —  the 
natural.  He  has  masterly  execution,  but  not  much 
invention. 

Like  Shakespeare,  he  is  remarkable  for  the  variety  of 
the  qualities  he  possesses,  excelling  equally  in  the  comic 
and  the  pathetic. 

He  has  great  wit,  great  humor,  strong  manly  sense, 
great  power  of  description,  perfect  knowledge  of  character, 
occasional  subUmity,  and  the  deepest  pathos. 

He  was  the  first  great  English  poet,  and  while  the  lan- 
guage, is  spoken,  he  will  be  honored  as  the  "  father  of  our 
literature." 


58  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SOME  PREDECESSORS   OF  SPENSER. 

IT  has  been  asserted  that  if  Chaucer  had  not  existed, 
the  poems  of  John  Gower  would  alone  have  been 
sufficient  to  rescue  the  reigns  of  Edward  III.  and  Richard 
II.  from  the  imputation  of  barbarism. 

Gower  is  supposed  to  have  been  born  about  the  year 
1325,  and  must  consequently  have  been  a  few  years  older 
than  Chaucer.  His  capital  production  is  a  poetical  work 
in  three  parts,  which  were  respectively  entitled,  ''  Specu- 
lum Meditantis,"  or,  "  The  Mirror  of  Meditation,"  written  in 
French  rhymes,  in  ten  books,  and  never  printed ;  the  "Vox 
Clamantis,"  or,  "Voice  of  one  Crying  in  the  AVilderness," 
containing  seven  books  of  Latin  elegiacs,  which  was  also 
never  printed;  and  the  "  Confessio  Amantis,"  or,  "  The 
Lover's  Confession,"  an  English  poem  in  eight  books,  first 
printed  by  Caxton  in  the  year  1483. 

This  poem  was  written  at  the  command  of  Richard  II., 
who,  meeting  Gower  rowing  on  the  Thames  near  London, 
invited  him  into  the  royal  barge,  and  ' '  after  much  con- 
versation, requested  him  to  book  some  new  thing." 

It  is  on  this  work  that  Gower's  character  and  reputation 
as  a  poet  are  almost  entirely  founded. 

The  "  Confessio  Amantis"  is  a  grave  discussion  on  the 
morals  and  metaphj'sics  of  love,  exemplified  by  a  variety 
of  apposite  stories  extracted  from  classics  and  chronicles. 

In  this  degenerate  nineteenth  century  we  can  hardly 
imagine  an  elegant  scholar,  of  Gower's  depth  and  breadth. 


SOME  PREDECESSORS  OF   SPENSER.  59 

sitting  gravely  down  to  a  discussion  of  the  morals  and 
metaphj'sics  of  love. 

Nowadays  if  poor  Cupid  ever  dare  come  into  serious 
learned  society,  he  is  fain  to  fold  his  arms,  hang  his  head, 
tuck  his  abhorred  quiver  under  his  wing,  and  entering 
with  Paul  Pry's  lowest  bow,  "hope  he  don't  intrude ; " 
happy  if  indeed  he  be  not  altogether  driven  out  and  forced 
to  take  shelter  between  ignoble  "yellow  covers,"  where, 
mutilated  by  false  description,  false  sentiment,  bad  man- 
ners, and  bad  morals,  from  a  winged  god  he  dwindles  to 
a  vile  grub-worm.  The  age  of  mechanics  is  not  the  age 
of  chivahy ;  and  we  read  with  incredulous  wonder  of  the 
ridiculous  but  sj'stematic  solemnity  with  which  the  passion 
of  love  was  treated  in  those  days  of  splendid  gallantry. 

Chaucer's  "  Court  of  Love  "  contained  the  twenty  stat- 
utes which  that  court  observed  under  the  severest  pen- 
alties, and  from  which  there  seems  to  have  been  no 
appeal;  and  we  find  in  Warton's  History  this  singular 
account  of  a  Society  of  the  Penitents  of  Love,  established 
in  Languedoc,  where  enthusiasm  was  carried  to  as  high 
a  pitch  as  it  ever  was  in  religion.  This  societ}^  presents 
a  curious  picture  of  the  times.  It  was  "  a  contention  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  should  best  sustain  the  honor 
of  their  amorous  fanaticism."  Their  object  was  to  prove 
the  excess  of  their  love  by  showing  with  an  invincible 
fortitude  and  consistenc}"  of  conduct,  with  no  less  ob- 
stinacy of  opinion,  that  they  could  bear  extremes  of  heat 
and  cold. 

Accordingly,    the   resolute   knights   and   esquires,   the 
dames  and  damsels  who  had  the  hardiness  to  embrace 
this  severe  institution,  dressed  themselves  during  the  heat 
of  summer  in  the  thickest  mantles  lined  with  the  warmest ' 
furs. 

In  this   they  demonstrated,  according  to  the   ancient 


60  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

poets,  that  love  works  the  most  wonderful  and  extraor- 
dinarj^  changes. 

In  winter  their  love  again  perverted  the  nature  of  the 
seasons  ;  they  then  clothed  themselves  in  the  lightest  and 
thinnest  stuffs  which  could  be  procured. 

It  was  a  crime  to  wear  furs  on  a  day  of  the  most  pierc- 
ing cold,  or  to  appear  with  a  hood,  cloak,  gloves,  or  muff. 

The  flame  of  love  kept  them  sufficiently-  warm.  Fires 
by  this  most  economical  fanaticism  were  all  the  winter 
utterly  banished  from  their  houses,  and  they  dressed  their 
apartments  with  evergreens. 

In  the  most  intense  frost  their  beds  were  covered  only 
with  a  piece  of  canvas. 

In  the  mean  time  the}-  passed  the  greater  part  of  the 
day  abroad  in  wandering  about  from  castle  to  castle ; 
"insomuch  that  many  of  these  devotees,  during  so  des- 
perate a  pilgrimage,  perished  by  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  and  died  martyrs  to  their  profession." 

The  solemn  sententiousness  of  Gower*s  "  Confessio 
Amantis"  caused  Chaucer  to  call  him  the  "  moral  Gower," 
and  he  retained  the  title  ever  after. 

Gower's  education  was  liberal,  his  course  of  reading 
extensive,  and  his  severer  studies  were  tempered  with  a 
knowledge  of  life.  By  a  critical  cultivation  of  his  native 
language,  he  labored  to  reform  its  irregularities,  and  to  es- 
tablish an  English  style.  His  grave  and  sententious  verses 
lack  spirit  and  imagination  ;  yet  his  language  is  tolerably 
perspicuous,  his  versification  often  harmonious,  and  he 
has  much  good  sense,  solid  reflection,  and  useful  obser- 
vation. Warton  affirms  that  "  no  poet  before  Gower  had 
treated  the  passion  of  love  with  equal  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment and  elegance  of  composition." 

Gower  was  the  friend  of  Chaucer,  though  in  later  life 
it  is  supposed  that  they  became  alienated.     The  affliction 


SOME  PREDECESSORS  OF  SPENSER.  61 

of  Milton  and  of  Homer  —  blindness  —  fell  upon  him  in 
his  later  3'ears.     His  death  took  place  in  1408. 

John  Lydgate,  the  poet  who  follows  Chaucer  and  Gower 
at  the  shortest  interval,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.,  and 
about  the  year  1430,  arrived  at  his  highest  eminence. 
Lj'dgate  was  a  monk  of  the  Benedictine  Abbey  of  Bury, 
in  Suffolk ;  but  his  genius  was  so  lively,  and  his  accom- 
plishments so  numerous,  that  the  holy  father,  St.  Benedict, 
it  has  been  hinted,  would  hardly  have  acknowledged  him 
for  a  genuine  disciple.  He  had  travelled  in  France  and 
Ital}-,  studying  the  poetr}',  and  returning  a  complete  master 
of  the  language  and  literature,  of  both  countries ;  and 
though  his  own  writings  contain  onlj'  a  few  good  passages, 
he  is  said  to  have  amplified  our  language  and  to  have  been 
the  first  of  our  writers  whose  style  is  clothed  with  that 
perspicuit}'  in  which  the  English  phraseology  appears  at 
this  day  to  an  English  reader. 

The  fact  that  he  opened  a  school  in  his  monastery  for 
the  instruction  of  3'oung  persons  of  the  upper  ranks  in  the 
art  of  versification,  is  cited  as  a  proof  that  poetry  had 
become  a  favorite  study  among  the  few  who  acquired  an}' 
tincture  of  letters  in  that  age.  "  Lydgate,"  observes 
Warton,  "  was  not  onl}'  the  poet  of  the  monaster}',  but 
of  the  world  in  general,  his  hymns  and  ballads  having 
the  same  degree  of  merit." 

A  fugitive  poem  of  his  is  curious  for  the  particulars  it 
gives  respecting  the  city  of  London  in  the  early  part  of 
the  fifteenth  centur}'. 

The  poet  has  come  to  town  in  search  of  legal  redress 
for  some  wrong,  and  visits  in  succession  the  Court  of 
Common  Pleas,  the  King's  Bench,  the  Court  of  Chancer}^, 
and  Westminster  Hall.     He  says,  — 

"  Within  the  hall,  neither  rich,  nor  yet  poor 

Would  do  for  me  aught,  although  I  should  die; 


62  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Which  seeing,  I  gat  me  out  of  the  door, 
Where  Flemings  began  on  me  for  to  cry, 
'  Master,  what  will  you  copen  or  buy  1 
Fine  felt  hats,  or  sjjpctacles  to  read  1 
Lay  down  your  silver,  and  here  you  may  speed/ 

"  Then  to  Westminster  gate  I  presently  went, 

When  the  sun  was  at  high  prime. 
Cooks  to  me  they  took  good  intent. 

And  proffered  me  bread,  with  ale  and  wine, 

Ribs  of  beef,  both  fat  and  full  fine  ; 
A  fair  cloth  they  'gan  for  to  spread. 
But  wanting  money,  I  might  not  be  sped. 

"  Then  unto  London  I  did  me  hie  ; 
Of  all  the  land  it  beareth  the  prize. 
*  Hot  peascods ! '  one  began  to  cry  ; 

*  Strawberry  ripe,  and  cherries  in  the  rise ! ' 
One  bade  me  come  near  and  buy  some  spice ; 

Pepper  and  saffron  they  'gan  me  feed  ; 
But  for  lack  of  money,  I  might  not  speed. 

"  Then  to  the  Cheap  I  'gan  me  drawn. 
Where  much  people  I  saw  for  to  stand. 
One  offered  me  velvet,  silk,  and  lawn, 
Another,  he  taketh  me  by  the  hand  : 

*  Here  is  Paris  thread,  the  finest  in  the  land ! ' 
I  never  was  used  to  such  things,  indeed ; 

And  wanting  money,  I  might  not  speed. 

"  Then  went  I  forth  by  London  Stone, 
Throughout  all  Canwick  Street ; 

Drapers  much  cloth  me  offered  loane  ; 

Then  comes  me  one  cries  *  Hot  sheep's  feet !  * 

One  cried  mackerel,  rushes  green,  another  'gan  greet. 

One  bade  me  buy  a  hood  to  cover  my  head ; 

But  for  want  of  money,  I  might  not  be  sped. 

**  Then  I  hied  me  unto  East-Cheap. 

One  cries  ribs  of  beef,  and  many  a  pie ; 
Pewter  pots  they  clattered  on  a  heap ; 


SOME  PREDECESSORS  OF  SPENSER.      63 

There  was  harp,  pipe,  and  minstrelsy, 

*  Yea,  by  cock !  nay,  by  cock ! '  some  began  cry, 

Some  sung  of  Jenkin  and  Julian  for  their  meed ; 

But  for  lack  of  money,  I  might  not  speed. 

"  Then  into  Cornhill  anon  I  yode. 

Where  was  much  stolen  gear  among. 
I  saw  where  hung  mine  own  hood 

That  I  had  lost  among  the  throng. 

To  buy  my  own  hood  I  thought  it  wrong ; 
I  knew  it  well,  as  I  did  my  creed ; 
But  for  lack  of  money,  I  could  not  speed." 

"  The  rise  of  such  men  as  Chaucer,"  it  has  been  hap- 
pily observed,  "is  the  accident  of  Nature,  and  whole 
centuries  may  pass  without  producing  them."  From  his 
death,  in  1400,  two  centuries  in  the  life  of  England  fol- 
lowed, which,  though  more  enlightened  than  the  times  of 
Chaucer,  produced  no  poet  comparable  to  him. 

In  this  long  period  poets  arose  who  displayed  the  grace 
and  elevation,  if  not  the  creative  energ}^,  of  true  poetrj'. 
Eminent  among  these  was  Thomas  Howard,  eldest  son  of 
the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  and  usually  denominated  the  Earl  of 
Surrey.  This  nobleman,  born  in  1516,  was  educated  at 
Windsor  in  company  with  a  natural  son  of  Henry  VIII., 
and  in  earl}^  life  became  accomplished  in  the  learning  of 
the  time,  and  in  all  kinds  of  courtly  and  chivalrous 
exercise. 

About  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  the  sonnets  of  Petrarch  were  the 
great  models  of  composition ;  it  has  been  said  of  Surrej^ 
that  with  a  mistress  as  beautiful  as  Laura,  and  with 
Petrarch's  passion,  if  not  his  taste,  he  led  the  way  to 
gi'eat  improvements  in  English  poetry,  by  a  happy  imita- 
tion of  this  great  master  and  other  Italian  poets,  of 
whom  he  became  a  devoted  student  during  his  travels  in 
Italy.     His  poetry  is  chiefly  amorous,  and  in  praise   of 


64        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Geraldine,  descendant  of  the  Dukes  of  Tuscany,  maid  of 
honor  to  Queen  Katharine. 

A  portrait  of  this  lady,  who  was  the  object  of  Surre3''s 
passionate  devotion,  is  still  extant,  and  is  said  to  be 
sufficiently  beautiful  to  authorize  the  poetical  raptures  of 
her  lover,  which,  however  absurd  they  may  appear,  ac- 
corded with  the  fashionable  system  of  Platonic  gallantry, 
introduced  from  Italy,  and  "  approved  at  that  time  by  the 
most  virtuous  and  illustrious." 

Surrey  is  said  to  have  made  the  tour  of  Europe  in  the 
true  spirit  of  chivalry. 

The  first  city  which  he  proposed  to  visit  in  Italy  was 
Florence.  Passing  a  few  days  at  the  Emperor's  court,  on 
his  way  thither,  he  became  acquainted  with  Cornelius 
Agrippa,  a  celebrated  adept  in  natural  magic,  who,  as  the 
story  goes,  showed  him  in  a  mirror  a  living  image  of  the 
fair  Geraldine.  This  incident  is  beautifully  related  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  in  the  ''Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel." 

"  'T  was  All-Souls'  eve  ;  and  Surrey's  heart  beat  high. 

He  heard  the  midnight  bell  with  anxious  start 
Which  told  the  mystic  hour,  approaching  nigh, 

When  wise  Cornelius  promised,  by  his  art. 
To  show  to  him  the  ladye  of  his  heart. 

Albeit  betwixt  them  roared  the  ocean  grim ; 
Yet  so  the  sage  had  hight  to  play  his  part, 

That  he  should  see  her  form  in  life  and  limb, 

And  mark  if  still  she  loved,  and  still  she  thought  of  him. 

"  Fair  all  the  pageant,  but  how  passing  fair 

The  slender  form  which  lay  on  couch  of  Ind  I 

O'er  her  white  bosom  strayed  her  hazel  hair ; 
Pale  her  dear  cheek,  as  if  for  love  she  pined. 

All  in  her  night-robe  loose  she  lay  reclined, 
And,  pensive,  read  from  tablet  ebumine 

Some  strain  that  seemed  her  inmost  soul  to  find. 
That  favored  strain  was  Surrey's  raptured  line. 
That  fair  and  lovely  form,  the  Lady  Geraldine." 


I 
I 

I 


SOME  PREDECESSORS   OF   SPENSER.  65 

His  imagination  inflamed  anew,  this  enthusiastic  and 
romantic  lover  hastened  to  Florence,  and  on  his  arrival 
immediately  published  a  defiance  against  any  person  who 
could  handle  a  lance,  and  was  in  love,  '*  whether  Chris- 
tian, Jew,  Turk,  Saracen,  or  cannibal,  who  should  presume 
to  dispute  that  his  Ladye-Love  was  superior  to  all  that 
Italy  could  vaunt  of  beauty,  —  that  she  was  fair  beyond 
the  fairest."  As  the  lady  was  pretended  to  be  of  Tuscan 
origin,  the  pride  of  the  Florentines  was  flattered  ;  and  the 
Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  saj^s  the  historian,  permitted  a 
general  ingress  into  his  dominions  of  the  combatants  of 
all  countries,  till  this  important  trial  should  be  decided. 
The  challenge  was  accepted  and  the  earl  victorious. 

The  shield  which  Surrey  presented  to  the  duke  before 
the  tournament  began,  was,  it  is  said,  in  the  possession 
of  the  late  Duke  of  Norfolk.  Geraldine,  we  are  sorry  to 
add,  with  all  her  beaut}'  and  grace,  was  not  worth  tilting 
for.  She  was  vain,  frivolous,  and  coquettish,  and  is  only 
interesting  from  having  given  the  impulse  to  her  lover's 
genius,  exciting  him  to  try  his  powers  in  a  style  of  com- 
position no  models  of  which  yet  existed  in  his  native 
language. 

*'  Only  she  that  hath  as  great  a  share  in  Virtue  as  in 
Beaut}^  deserves  a  noble  love  to  serve  her,  and  a  true 
poesie  to  speak  her." 

Surrey's  poetry  is  remarkable  for  its  flowing  melody, 
correctness  of  stj^le,  and  purity  of  expression.  The  high- 
est qualities  in  his  verse  are  the  facility  and  general  me- 
chanical perfection  of  his  versification,  and  his  delicacy 
and  tenderness.  He  was  the  first  to  introduce  the  sonnet 
and  blank  verse  into  English  poetr}^  Surre3''s  wit,  learn- 
ing, and  militar}-  ability,  excited  the  jealousy  of  Henry 
VIII.  His  actions  were  misconstrued,  and  he  was  even 
accused  of  designs  upon  the  crown. 

6 


ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


The  addition  of  the  escutcheon  of  Edward  the  Confessor 
to  his  own,  though  justified  by  the  authority  of  the  heralds, 
was  a  sufficient  foundation  for  an  impeachment  for  high 
treason,  and  he  at  length  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  peevish 
injustice  of  this  merciless  and  ungrateful  monarch ;  not- 
withstanding his  eloquent  defence,  he  was  condemned  by 
a  servile  jur}^,  and  beheaded  at  Tower  Hill  in  the  3-ear 
1547,  at  the  early  age  of  twent3'-seven,  having,  it  is  said, 
earned  away  from  all  his  competitors  the  laurels  of  knight- 
hood and  of  song.  This  sonnet  to  a  lover  who  presumed 
to  compare  his  "  Ladj'e-Love"  to  Geraldine  is  a  specimen 
of  Surrey's  style.  It  is  ingenious  and  elegant ;  and  the 
leading  compliment  has  been  copied  by  later  poets. 

A  PRAISE    OF   HIS   LOUE :    WHERIN  HE    REPROUETHE 
THEM  THAT  COMPARE   THEIR   LADIES  WITH  HIS. 

Geue  place,  ye  louers,  here  before 

That  spent  your  bostes  and  bragges  in  vaine. 

My  Ladies  beawtie  passeth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayen, 

Than  doth  the  sonne,  the  candle  light, 

Or  brightest  day,  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  trothe  as  lust, 
As  had  Penelope  the  fayre. 
For  what  she  saith,  ye  may  it  trust, 
As  it  by  writing  sealed  were  ; 
And  vertues  hath  she  many  moe 
Than  I  with  pen  haue  skill  to  showe. 
I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  wolde, 

The  whole  effect  of  nature's  plaint, 
When  she  had  lost  the  perfit  mold, 

The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint. 
With  wringyng  handes  howe  she  dyd  cry, 
And  what  she  said,  I  know  it,  I. 
I  knowe  she  swore  with  ragyng  mynd : 


sorl. 


SOME  PREDECESSORS   OF   SPENSER.  67 

Her  kingdom  onely  set  apart, 
There  was  no  losse  by  loue  of  kind 

That  could  haue  gone  so  nere  her  hart. 
And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  payne : 
She  coulde  not  make  the  lyke  agayne. 
Sith  Nature  thus  gaue  her  the  prayse, 

To  be  the  chief  est  worke  she  wrought: 
In  faith,  methinke,  some  better  waies 

On  your  behalfe  might  well  be  sought 
Than  to  compare  (as  ye  haue  done), 
To  matche  the  candle  with  the  sonne. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt's  poetry,  neither  so  flowery  in  form 
nor  so  gentle  in  spirit  as  Surrey's,  has  perhaps  more 
depth  of  sentiment  as  well  as  more  force. 

Wyatt's  skill  in  arms,  fidelity  in  the  execution  of  pub- 
lic business,  and  his  learning  and  lively  conversational 
powers,  won  the  favor  of  Henry  VIII.,  though  he  is  said 
to  have  nearly  lost  his  popularity  and  his  head  together 
b}^  his  intimacy  with  Anne  Bolej'n,  to  whom  these  pas- 
sionate lines  of  his  are  supposed  to  be  addressed. 

"  Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant ; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent 
Forget  not  yet ! 

"  Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life,  ye  know  since  whan ; 
The  suit,  the  service,  none  tell  can, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

"  Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways. 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

"  Forget  not !  oh,  forget  not  this  ! 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is, 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss,  * 

Forget  not  yet ! 


68        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved, 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved  : 
Forget  not  this  ! " 

The  prudence  and  integrity  of  the  poet  justified  his  in- 
nocence, and  restored  him  to  the  royal  favor.  Wyatt  died 
at  last  of  a  fever  caused  by  riding  too  fast  on  a  hot  day 
while  engaged  on  a  mission  for  the  king. 

Surrey's  royal  murderer  wrote  a  book  of  sonnets,  —  a 
manuscript  edition  of  which  is  said  to  be  still  extant,  and  was 
in  the  possession  of  the  late  Lord  Eglinton.  An  old  madri- 
gal of  his  set  to  music  is  supposed  to  have  been  addressed 
to  Anne  Boleyn  when  he  first  fell  in  love  with  her.  It 
begins  thus,  — 

"  The  eagle's  force  subdues  each  bird  that  flies. 
What  metal  can  resist  the  flaming  fire  ? 
Doth  not  the  sun  dazzle  the  clearest  eyes, 
And  melt  the  ice  and  make  the  frost  retire  ?  " 

The  sonnets  that  commemorate  the  loves  of  this  regal 
butcher  bring  to  mind   that   famous    couplet  in  Watts' 

Catechism :  — 

"  The  cat  doth  play 
And  after  slay." 

Warton  sagel}^  informs  us  that  "if  Henry  had  never 
murdered  his  wives,  his  politeness  to  the  fair  sex  would 
have  remained  unimpeached."  Murder,  we  must  all  agree, 
is  indeed  a  breach  of  etiquette. 

In  1471  the  first  book  in  the  English  language  ever  put 
to  the  press  was  printed  at  Ghent  by  William  Caxton,  who, 
while  acting  as  agent  for  English  merchants  in  Holland, 
made  himself  master  of  the  art,  then  recently  introduced 
on  the  Continent.  He  afterward  established  a  printing- 
oflSce  at,  Westminster,  and  produced  the  *'  Game  of  Chess," 
•which  was  the  first  book  printed  in  Britain. 


SOME  PREDECESSORS   OF   SPENSER.  69 

**  Caxton  was,"  it  is  said,  "  a  man  of  plain  understand- 
ing, but  of  great  entiiusiasm  in  the  cause  of  literature." 
He  translated,  or  wrote,  about  sixty  different  books,  all 
of  which  went  through  his  own  press  before  his  death,  in 
1491. 


70  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ELIZABETHAN  AGE,  AND  SPENSER. 


n 


IT  has  been  fairly  observed  that  ' '  of  what  is  commonl}- 
called  our  Elizabethan  literature,  the  greater  portion 
appertains  to  the  reign,  not  of  Elizabeth,  but  of  James,  — 
to  the  seventeenth,  not  to  the  sixteenth  century ;  but  as  it 
sprung  up  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  was  mainly  the 
product  of  influences  which  belong  to  that  age,  the  com- 
mon name  is  the  just  and  proper  one.  It  was  born  and 
ripened  by  that  sunnj^  morning  of  a  new  day,  — '  Great 
Eliza's  golden  time,'  —  when  the  growing  power  and  pros- 
perity of  England  had  reassured  and  elevated  the  national 
heart."  Let  us  look  musinglj^  backward  down  the  long 
vista  of  years,  and  behold  in  fancy  that  "golden  time" 
of  "  Great  Eliza."  We  may  see,  as  in  a  gorgeous  pano- 
rama, the  splendid  court  of  England's  Virgin  Queen : 
the  grand  presence-(jhamber,  strewn  with  rushes  and 
adorned  with  the  costly  decorations  of  the  time  ;  the  "  fair 
Vestal  throned  by  the  West,"  refulgent  in  jewels  and 
stately  in  starch  and  powder;  the  courtly  throng  of 
knights  and  ladies ;  Leicester,  shrewd,  handsome,  and 
unscrupulous,  presuming  equally  on  the  admiring  tender- 
ness of  the  woman  and  the  golden  favor  of  the  queen,  and 
bending  low  in  courtly  gallantry  to  whisper  honeyed  flatter- 
ies, so  near  that  ''  his  breath  thaws  her  ruff."  Essex,  too, 
is  here,  —  blunt,  loyal,  and  brave,  and  basking  in  the  yet 
unclouded  smile  of  his  royal  mistress.     Raleigh,  young, 


ELIZABETHAN  AGE,  AND  SPENSER.  71 

rash,  and  impetuous,  wearing  with  careless  grace  his  mud- 
soiled  mantle,  still  elate  with  his  first  draught  of  regal 
favor,  and  "fain  to  climb,"  although  he  "fall,"  is  here. 
Spenser  has  but  just  come  modestly  up  to  court  under  the 
wing  of  Sidney.  A  few  books  of  the  "Faery  Queen  "  are 
singing  a  sweet  under-song  to  themselves  in  his  doublet. 
Sidne}',  "the  spirit  without  spot,"  the  flower  of  knight- 
hood and  manhood,  the  wonder  of  whom  it  might  well  be 
said  that  "  Nature  lost  the  perfect  mould,"  and  might 
never  bless  the  world  with  a  counterpart,  graces  and 
adorns  the  scene. 

The  pageant  fades ;  knights,  lords,  and  ladies  are  but 
"  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,"  and  have  long  since 
mouldered  in  dust.  Good  Queen  Bess  has  herself  "  lain 
down  with  kings  ; "  but  her  golden  age  shall  be  honored 
from  generation  to  generation  till  earth  is  hoar,  for  then 
it  was  that  Nature,  assaying  through  long  centuries  in  her 
mystic  laboratory,  brought  forth  at  last  the  wonder  of  all 
time ;  the  immortal  bard  who  foreruns  the  ages,  "  antici- 
pating all  that  shall  be  said,"  —  our  Shakespeare  !  The 
chief  glory  of  the  Elizabethan  age  is  its  poetry,  which  ex- 
ceeds in  quality  and  quantity  that  of  any  other  age  in  the 
annals  of  English  literature. 

In  a  catalogue  of  good  authority  no  less  than  two  hun- 
dred poets  are  referred  to  that  period. 

In  the  poetry  of  this  age  fable,  fiction,  and  fancy  pre- 
dominate, and  a  predilection  for  thrilling  adventures  and 
pathetic  events.  The  cause  of  this  characteristic  distinc- 
tion is  thus  explained  :  — 

"  When  the  corj-uptions  of  popery  were  abolished,  the 
fashion  of  cultivating  the  Greek  and  Roman  learning  be- 
came universal ;  classic  literature,  being  liberally  diflEused 
by  the  press,  served  to  excite  a  taste  for  elegant  reading 
in  lower  branches  of  societv  than  had  ever  before  felt  the 


72        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

general  influence  of  letters.  The  literary  character,  now 
no  longer  appropriated  to  scholars  by  profession,  was  as- 
sumed by  the  nobility  and  gentry.  An  accurate  compre- 
hension of  the  phraseology  and  pecuHarities  of  the  ancient 
poets  was,  we  are  told,  an  indispensable  object  in  the 
circle  of  a  gentleman's  education.  Everj^  young  lady  of 
fashion  was  carefuUj^  instructed  in  classical  letters,  and 
the  daughter  of  a  duchess  was  taught,  not  onh^  to  distil 
strong  waters,  but  to  construe  Greek."  Queen  Elizabeth's 
passion  for  these  acquisitions  is  well  known.  Roger  As- 
cham,  her  preceptor,  speaks  with  rapture  of  her  astonish- 
ing progress  in  the  Greek  nouns,  and  boasts  that  "  she 
was  accustomed  to  read  more  Greek  in  a  day  than  some 
canons  of  Windsor  did  Latin  in  one  week." 

The  books  of  antiquity  being  thus  familiarized  to  the 
great,  everything  was  tinctured  with  ancient  history  and 
mytholog}^  It  is  said  that  "  when  the  queen  paraded 
through  a  country  town,  almost  every  pageant  was  a  Pan- 
theon. When  she  paid  a  visit  at  the  house  of  any  of  her 
nobilit}',  at  entering  the  hall  she  was  saluted  by  the  Pe- 
nates, and  conducted  to  her  privy  chamber  by  Mercurj-. 
At  dinner  —  for  even  the  pastrj-cooks  were  expert  m}-- 
thologists  —  select  transformations  of  Ovid's  '  Metamor- 
phoses '  were  exhibited  in  confectioner}' ;  and  the  splendid 
icing  of  an  immense  historic  plum-cake  was  embossed  with 
a  delicious  basso-rehevo  of  the  destruction  of  Tro3^ 

"  In  the  afternoon,  when  she  condescended  to  walk  in 
the  park,  the  lake  was  covered  with  tritons  and  nereids. 

"The  pages  of  the  family  were  converted  into  wood- 
nymphs,  who  peeped  from  every  bower,  and  the  footmen 
gambolled  over  the  lawn  in  the  figure  of  satyrs. 

"  The  next  morning,  after  sleeping  in  a  room  hung  with 
the  tapestrj*  of  the  vo3-age  of  ^neas,  when  her  Majesty 
hunted  in  the  park  she  was  met  by  Diana,  who,  pronouncing 


ELIZABETHAN   AGE,  AND   SPENSER.  73 

the  roj'al  prude  to  be  the  brightest  paragon  of  unspotted 
chastity,  invited  her  to  groves  free  from  the  intrusion  of 
Actseon.  When  she  rode  through  the  streets  of  Norwich, 
Cupid,  at  the  command  of  the  mayor  and  aldermen,  ad- 
vancing from  a  group  of  gods  who  had  obligingly  left 
Olympus  to  grace  the  procession,  gave  her  a  golden  arrow, 
—  the  most  efi'ective  weapon  of  his  well-furnished  quiver,  — 
which,  under  the  influence  of  such  irresistible  charms, 
was  sure  to  wound  the  most  obdurate  heart.  ...  A  gift," 
sa3's  the  honest  historian,  ^^  which  her  Majest}',  now  verg- 
ing to  her  fiftieth  year,  received  very  thankfull}'." 

This  inundation  of  classic  pedantry  had  an  immediate 
effect  upon  English  Uterature,  enriching  the  language  by  a 
greater  variety  of  words  from  the  classic  tongues,  estab- 
lishing better  models  of  thought  and  style,  and  allowing 
greater  freedom  to  fancy  and  the  powers  of  observation. 
''Our  poets,"  observes  Warton,  "  were  suddenly  dazzled 
with  these  novel  imaginations,  and  the  divinities  and  heroes 
of  pagan  antiquity  decorated  every  composition."  The 
translation  of  the  classics,  which  now  employed  every  pen, 
gave  a  currency  and  celebrity  to  these  fancies. 

In  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  almost  all  the  poets 
were  either  courtiers  themselves  or  under  the  immediate 
protection  of  courtiers  ;  whatever,  Jihen,  there  was,  re- 
fined, gay,  or  sentimental,  in  England  at  this  time  came 
with  its  full  influence  upon  poetrj'.  Elizabeth  herself, 
among  her  many  weaknesses  and  vanities,  is  said  to  have 
had  the  desire  of  shining  as  a  poetess.  The  praises  which 
the  courtiers  and  writers  of  that  age  lavished  upon  her  for 
her  classical  attainments  she  really  deserved ;  but  their 
admiration  of  her  royal  ditties  was  probably  about  as  just 
as  the  flatteries  bestowed  on  her  beauty. 

The  queen,  being  herself  addicted  to  poetical  composi- 
tion, was  pleased  to  fill  her  court  with  men  qualified  to 


74        ENGLISH  POETKY  AND  POETS. 

shine  in  that  department  of  literature,  and  hence  the  poets 
of  that  age  were  constantly  receiving  the  smiles  and  occa- 
sionally the  solid  benefactions  of  royalty'. 

The  works  brought  forth  at  this  period  have  been  aptly 
compared  to  the  productions  of  "  a  soil  for  the  first  time 
broken  up,  when  all  indigenous  plants  spring  up  at  once 
Tvith  a  rank  and  irrepressible  fertility,  and  display  whatever 
is  peculiar  and  excellent  in  their  nature  on  a  scale  the  most 
conspicuous  and  magnificent."  *'  The  ability  to  write, 
having,"  says  an  observing  critic,  "  been,  as  it  wore,  sud- 
denly created,  the  whole  world  of  character,  imagery,  and 
sentiment  lay  ready  for  the  use  of  those  who  possessed  the 
gift,  and  was  appropriated  accordingly."  As  might  be  ex- 
pected where  there  was  less  rule  of  art  than  opulence  of 
materials,  the  productions  of  these  writers  are  often  defi- 
cient in  taste.  Yet  it  has  been  justly  observed  *'  that 
after  every  proper  deduction  has  been  made,  enough  re- 
mains to  fix  this  era  as  b}^  far  the  mightiest  in  the  his- 
tory of  English  literature,  or  indeed  of  human  intellect 
and  capacity."  "  In  point  of  real  force  and  originality  of 
genius,"  says  Craik,  "  neither  the  age  of  Pericles  nor  the 
age  of  Augustus  nor  the  times  of  Leo  X. ,  nor  of  Louis 
XIV.,  can  come  at  all  into  comparison  with  the  sixty  or 
seventy"  years  that  elapsed  from  the  middle  of  Elizabeth's 
reign  to  the  period  of  the  Restoration,  for  in  that  short 
period  we  find  the  names  of  all  the  very  great  men 
England  has  ever  produced,  —  men  not  merely  of  great 
talents,  but  of  vast  compass  and  reach  of  understanding, 
and  of  minds  truly  creative  and  original,  not  perfecting 
art  by  the  delicacy  of  their  tastes,  or  digesting  knowledge 
by  the  justness  of  their  reasonings,  but  making  vast  and 
substantial  additions  upon  which  taste  and  reason  must 
hereafter  be  employed."  The  cultivation  of  an  English 
style  began  now  to  be  especially  regarded.    Roger  Ascham 


ELIZABETHAN  AGE,  AND  SPENSER.  75 

was  the  first  English  scholar  who  ventured  to  "  break 
the  shackles  of  Latmit}^"  and  publish  in  English  with  a 
view  of  giving  a  pure  and  correct  model  of  English 
composition. 

"  Whoever  will  write  well  in  any  tongue,"  he  quaintly 
observes,  "  must  follow  this  counsel  of  Aristotle,  —  to  speak 
as  the  common  people  do,  to  think  as  wise  men  do ;  using 
such  strange  words  as  Latin,  French,  and  Italian,  do  make 
all  things  dark  and  hard."  This  learned  man,  university 
orator  at  Cambridge,  and  at  one  time  preceptor  and  ulti- 
mately Latin  secretary  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  was  the  first 
wiiter  on  education  in  our  language  ;  and  many  of  his 
views  on  this  subject  are  thought  to  be  remarkable, 
according  with  the  most  enlightened  of  modern  times. 

Living  in  an  age  when  men  of  learning  were  prone  to 
waste  their  talents  in  disputes  about  predestination  and 
original  sin,  this  wise  man  deserves  our  admiration  for  the 
better  use  of  his  acquirements.  When  he  died,  in  1568, 
Queen  Elizabeth  is  said  to  have  remarked  that  she  "  would 
rather  have  given  ten  thousand  pounds  than  to  have  lost 
him,"  —  a  coarse  estimate  of  his  worth,  but  doubtless 
meant  to  do  him  honor.  Ascham's  writings  furnished  an 
improved  example  of  stjle  ;  yet  in  this  era  our  language 
cannot  be  said  to  have  assumed  that  facility  and  clear- 
ness, that  fluency  and  grace,  which  it  afterward  acquired. 

Thomas  Wilson,  one  of  the  most  accomplished  scholars 
of  his  time,  and  privy  counsellor  to  the  Queen  as  well]  as 
Secretary  of  State,  thus  quaintly  discusses  the  prevailing 
errors  in  style  peculiar  to  the  time :  — 

"  The  fine  courtier,"  he  says,  "  will  talk  nothing  but  Chaucer. 
The  mystical  wisemen  and  poetical  clerkes  will  speak  nothing 
but  quaint  proverbs  and  blind  allegories,  delighting  much  in 
their  own  darkness,  especially  when  none  can  tell  what  they 
do  say. 


76        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


"  Some  will  be  so  fine  and  poetical  withal  that  to  their  seem- 
ing there  shall  not  stand  one  hair  amiss,  and  yet  every  body  else 
shall  think  them  meter  for  a  ladle's  chamber  than  for  an  earnest 
matter  in  an  open  debate.  .  .  .  Some,"  he  adds,  "  use  over-much 
repetition  of  one  letter  —  as,  pitiful  poverty  prayeth  for  a  penny, 
but  puffed  presumption  passeth  not  a  point,  pampering  his 
paunch  with  pestilent  pleasure;  procuring  his  passport  to  post 
it  to  hell-pit,  there  to  be  punished  with  pains  perpetual. 

"  Some,"  he  continues,  "  end  their  sentences  all  alike,  mak- 
ing their  talk  rather  to  appear  rhymed  metre  than  to  seem  plain 
speech.  I  heard  a  preacher  delighting  much  in  this  kind  of 
composition,  who  used  so  often  to  end  his  sentences  with  words 
like  unto  that  which  went  before,  that  in  my  judgement  there 
was  not  a  dozen  sentences  in  his  whole  sermon  but  they  ended 
all  in  rhyme  for  the  most  part.  Some,  not  best  disposed, 
wished  the  preacher  a  lute,  that  with  his  rhymed  sermon  he 
might  use  some  pleasant  melodic,  and  so  the  people  might 
take  pleasure  divers  ways,  and  dance  if  they  list." 

The  poets,  as  might  be  expected,  ran  headlong  into  errors 
for  which  they  could  plead  such  respectable  example  as  the 
grave  and  learned  professions.  The  court  language  was  for 
some  time  during  Elizabeth's  reign  formed  on  the  plan  of 
John  Lyl3%  born  in  1554,  —  a  pedantic  courtier,  who  wrote  a 
book  entitled  "  Euphues,  or,  The  Anatomy  of  Wit,"  which 
he  makes  to  consist  in  the  power  of  hatching  unnatural 
conceits.  Lyly  exercised  a  powerful  and  injurious  influ- 
ence upon  the  literature  of  his  age. 

Alliteration,  which  was  now,  it  is  said,  almost  as  fashion- 
able as  punning,  seemed  in  some  degree  to  bring  back 
English  composition  to  the  barbarous  rules  of  the  ancient 
Anglo-Saxons,  the  merit  of  whose  poems  consisted  not  in 
the  ideas,  but  in  the  quaint  arrangement  of  the  words  and 
the  regular  recurrence  of  some  favorite  sound  or  letter. 
However,  England  had  now  arrived  at  that  period  pro- 
pitious to  the  growth  of  original  and  true  poetry. 


3m-  II 


ELIZABETHAN  AGE,   AND   SPENSER.  77 

General  knowledge  was  increasing  with  a  wide  diffusion 
and  rapidity.  Books  began  to  be  multiplied,  and  a  variety 
of  the  most  useful  and  rational  topics  had  been  discussed 
in  our  own  language,  though  it  is  still  affirmed  that  the  gen- 
erality of  the  lower  and  man}^  even  of  the  middle  classes 
remained  to  the  end  of  this  period  almost  wholly  unedu- 
cated. It  has  been  supposed  that  the  father  of  Shake- 
speare, an  alderman  of  Stratford,  could  not  write  his 
name.  In  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  some  poetical  names 
of  importance  precede  that  of  Spenser.  The  first  is 
Thomas  Sackville,  subsequently  Earl  of  Dorset,  and  Lord 
High  Chancellor  of  England,  and  author  of  ''  Gorboduc," 
the  first  English  tragedy. 

In  1557  Sackville  formed  the  design  of  a  poem  entitled 
"  The  Mirrour  for  Magistrates."  In  this  poem,  the  scene  of 
which,  in  imitation  of  Dante,  he  lays  in  the  infernal  regions, 
it  was  his  design  to  make  all  the  great  persons  of  English 
history,  from  the  Conquest  downward,  pass  in  review,  and 
each  tell  his  own  tale  as  a  warning  to  existing  statesmen. 
Other  duties  compelled  Sackville  to  break  off  the  poem  after 
he  had  written  a  portion,  and  to  commit  the  completion 
of  the  work  to  two  poets  of  inferior  note,  Richard  Baldwin 
and  George  Ferrers.  Baldwin  and  Ferrers  called  other 
writers  to  their  aid  ;  and  as  any  narrative  belonging  to 
the  historical  or  legendary  annals  of  the  nation  might  be 
inserted  in  the  work  without  any  regard  to  connection  or 
adaptation,  it  became  a  receptacle  for  all  the  ready  versi- 
fiers of  the  da}",  and  has  been  aptly  compared  to  "  a  sort 
of  growing  monument  or  cairn,  to  which  every  man  added 
his  stone  or  little  separate  specimen  of  brick  and  mortar, 
who  conceived  himself  to  have  any  skill  in  building  the 
lofty  rhyme."  Yet  for  all  its  many  authors  it  is  only  of 
note  in  the  history  of  English  poetry  for  the  portions  con- 
tributed by  its  originator. 


78        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


1 

the  II 


The  work  is  considered  of  a  remarkable  kind  for 
age,  and  is  thought  to  contain  in  some  parts  a  strength 
of  description  in  allegorical  painting  of  character  scarcely- 
inferior  to  Spenser,  whose  genius  was  one  of  the  peculiar 
glories  of  the  romantic  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

Edmund  Spenser  was,  like  Chaucer,  a  native  of  Lon- 
don, born  about  1553.  The  rank  of  his  parents  is  not 
known  ;  he  is  supposed  to  belong  to  the  noble  and  ancient 
family  of  Spenser,  "  who,"  as  Gibbon  happil^^  remarks, 
''  should  consider  the  '  Faery  Queen  '  as  the  most  precious 
jewel  in  their  coronet." 

Spenser  took  his  degree  in  Cambridge  in  1576.  In  1579 
he  first  published  his  "  Shepherd's  Calendar,"  dedicated 
to  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who  afterward  became  his  friend 
and  patron  at  court,  and  recommended  him  to  his  uncle, 
the  powerful  Earl  of  Leicester,  Queen  Elizabeth's  prime 
favorite.  As  a  dependant  upon  Leicester  and  a  suitor  for 
court  favor,  Spenser  is  supposed  to  have  experienced  many 
reverses  at  this  period  of  his  life,  of  which  comparatively 
little  is  known.  These  lines  in  "  Mother  Hubbard's  Tale," 
though  not  printed  till  1581,  evidently  belong  to  this 
period. 

"  Full  little  knowest  thou  that  hast  not  tried 
What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide,  — 
To  lose  good  days  that  might  be  better  spent ; 
To  waste  long  nights  in  peevish  discontent ; 
To  speed  to-day,  to  be  put  back  to-morrow  ; 
To  feed  on  hope,  to  pine  with  fear  and  sorrow ; 
To  have  thy  princess'  grace,  yet  want  her  peers; 
To  have  thy  asking,  yet  wait  many  years ; 
To  fret  thy  soul  with  crosses  and  with  cares ; 
To  eat  thy  heart  through  comfortless  despairs ; 
To  fawn,  to  crouch,  to  wait,  to  ride,  to  run, 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  wait,  to  be  undone  ! " 

Spenser,  from  recentl}-  discovered  documents,  appears  to 
have  been  employed  in  inferior  State  missions,  —  a  task 


ELIZABETHAN  AGE,   AND   SPENSER.  79 

then  often  devolved  on  poets  and  dramatists.  At  length, 
when  Lord  Grey  of  Wilton  was  sent  as  Lord  Deputy  to 
Ireland,  he  became  his  secretary.  Returning  to  England 
with  the  deputy  after  two  years  abroad,  the  poet  received 
from  the  crown  in  June,  1586,  a  grant  of  land  out  of  the 
forfeited  domain  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond  in  Ireland. 

'*  When  we  remember,"  says  Craik,  *'  that  letters  as  yet  de- 
pended to  a  great  extent  for  encouragement  and  support  upon 
the  patronage  of  the  great,  and  that  Spenser's  scheme  of  life  was, 
first  of  all,  to  procure  for  himself  by  any  honorable  means  the 
leisure  necessary  to  enable  him  to  cultivate  and  employ  his 
poetical  powers,  we  shall  not  blame  him  for  seeking  such  a  pro- 
vision as  he  required  from  the  bounty  of  the  crown.  Spenser 
was  not  a  mere  dreamer,  but  a  man  of  the  largest  sense  and  the 
most  penetrating  insight,  of  the  most  general  research  and  in- 
formation, capable  of  achieving  any  degree  of  success  in  any 
other  field  as  well  as  in  poetry;  yet  conscious  of  possessing  '  the 
vision  and  the  faculty  divine,'  he  well  knew  that  so  endowed  he 
might  return  to  his  country  what  she  gave  him  a  hundredfold, 
by  conferring  upon  the  land,  the  language,  and  the  people  what 
all  future  generations  would  prize  as  their  best  inheritance,  and 
what  would  contribute  more  than  laws  or  victories  or  any  other 
glory  to  maintain  the  name  of  England  in  honor  and  renown  so 
long  as  it  should  be  heard  among  men.'* 

As  one  of  the  conditions  of  the  grant  was  that  the  poet 
should  reside  on  his  estate,  he  repaired  to  Ireland,  and 
took  up  his  abode  in  Kilcolman  Castle,  which  had  been 
one  of  the  strongholds  of  the  earls  of  Desmond.  This 
castle,  though  its  towers  are  now  almost  level  with  the 
ground,  must  ever  be  dear  to  the  lovers  of  genius.  It 
stood  in  the  midst  of  a  large  plain,  bj'  the  side  of  a  lake. 
The  river  Mulla  ran  through  the  poet's  grounds,  and  a 
distant  chain  of  mountains  seemed  to  bulwark  in  the  ro- 
mantic retreat.  Here  Spenser  is  supposed  to  have  written 
most  of  his  "  Faery  Queen."   Here  he  brought  home  his  wife 


80  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Elizabeth,  —  the  proud  beauty  so  long  loved  and  so  hardly 
won,  who  is  said  to  have  been  the  tenderest  and  most 
faithful  of  wives.  Of  all  the  sonnets  addressed  to  her 
(and  their  name  is  legion),  his  reply  when  she  confesses 
herself  won,  yet  fears  to  relinquish  her  maiden  freedom, 
is  the  most  beautiful. 

"  The  doubt  that  ye  misdeem,  fair  one,  is  vain, 
That  fondly  fear  to  lose  your  liberty ; 
When  losing  one,  two  liberties  ye  gain. 
And  make  him  bound  that  bondage  erst  did  fly. 
Sweet  be  the  bands  the  which  true  love  doth  tie, 
Without  constraint,  or  dread  of  any  ill  ; 
The  gentle  bird  feels  no  captivity 
Within  her  cage,  but  sings,  and  feeds  her  fill. 
There  Pride  dare  not  approach  nor  Discord  spill 
The  league  'twixt  them  that  loyal  love  hath  bound ; 
But  simple  truth  and  mutual  good-wiU 
Seeks  with  sweet  peace  to  salve  each  other's  wound. 
There  Faith  doth  fearless  dwell  in  brazen  tower, 
And  spotless  Pleasure  builds  her  sacred  bower." 

About  two  3'ears  after  this  marriage  Spenser  was  at- 
tacked in  his  castle  by  the  jealous  adherents  of  its  former, 
chief  during  the  insurrection  following  TjTone's  RebeUion. 
The  insurgents  plundered  and  set  fire  to  the  castle.  Spen- 
ser escaped  with  his  Elizabeth,  but  a  new-born  infant,  left 
behind  in  the  confusion  incident  to  such  a  calamit}',  perislied 
in  the  flames.  Impoverished  and  depressed  b}^  these  ca- 
lamities, the  poet  arrived  in  London  in  1598,  and  died  in 
about  three  months,  on  the  16th  of  Januarj',  1599.  It 
has  been  mistakenl}"  stated  that  the  author  of  the  ' '  Faer^- 
Queen"  died  of  povert}'  and  starvation.  His  death  was 
doubtless  the  result  of  accumulated  misfortune  upon  a 
spirit  too  finely  touched  for  mortal  combat  with  woe  and 
ill ;  3^et  he  was  not  without  the  certainty  of  a  decent 
subsistence.     *'  His  annual  pension,"  observes  Todd,  ''  of 


ELIZABETHAN  AGE,  AND  SPENSER.      '  81 

fift}'  pounds,  granted  by  Queen  Elizabeth,  was  a  sum  bj'  no 
means  inconsiderable  in  those  days ;  and  we  maj^  at  least 
believe  that  a  plundered  servant  of  the  crown  would  not 
pass  unnoticed  by  the  government  either  in  regard  to  per- 
ma.nent  compensation  or  to  immediate  relief  if  requisite." 
His  funeral  was  ordered  at  the  charge  of  the  Earl  of  Essex, 
which  mark  of  that  generous  nobleman's  respect  has  been 
erroneousl}'  cited  as  a  proof  of  the  poet's  extreme  indi- 
gence. His  hearse  vras  attended  and  the  pall  upborne  by 
the  poets  of  the  time,  while  mournful  elegies  and  poems, 
with  the  pens  that  wrote  them,  were  thrown  into  his  tomb. 

Spenser  had  that  high  opinion  of  his  own  art  without 
which  no  man  can  be  a  true  poet.  Poetr}^  was  with  him 
the  great  business  of  his  life ;  and  it  has  been  remarked 
of  him  that  "  he  approached  the  composition  of  the  *  Faery 
Queen '  with  a  seriousness  of  resolve  not  unlike  that  solemn 
mood  of  mind  in  which  Milton  has  told  us  that  he  himself 
meditated  upon  the  plan  of  the  '  Paradise  Lost.'  "  His 
works  show  him  to  have  been  a  man  of  great  delicac}^  of 
organization,  with  a  magnetic  sensitiveness  to  all  impres- 
sions of  beaut}^  and  clearly  evince  the  purity  and  eleva- 
tion of  his  moral  nature  and  the  depth  and  fervor  of  his 
religious  principles. 

The  subject  which  he  selected  for  his  great  work,  though 
not  in  accordance  with  the  formal  epic  model,  was  pecu- 
liarl}^  adapted  to  the  fanciful  and  romantic  character  of  his 
mind.  Though  he  borrowed  freel3'  from  other  poets  and 
drew  abundantly  from  the  copious  stores  of  both  classical 
and  romantic  literature,  it  may  still  be  said  of  him  that  he 
is  strictly  original  and  never  a  servile  imitator. 

The  ''Faery  Queen"  appeared  in  January,  1589.  Its 
adaptation  to  the  court  and  times  of  the  Virgin  Queen  as  well 
as  the  intrinsic  beauty  and  excellence  of  the  poem,  insured 
it  an  enthusiastic  reception.    It  was  designed  bj^  its  author 

6 


82  •         ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

to  be  taken  as  an  allegory  or  "  dark  conceit,"  as  he  calls 
it  in  his  letter  to  Raleigh,  explaining  the  nature  and  plan 
of  the  work.  He  states  his  object  to  be  "  to  fashion  a 
gentleman  or  noble  person  in  virtuous  and  gentle  disci- 
pline," and  that  he  had  chosen  Prince  Arthur  for  his  hero. 
He  conceives  that  prince  to  have  beheld  the  Faer}-  Queen 
in  a  dream,  and  to  have  been  so  enamoured  of  the  vision 
that  on  awakening  he  resolved  to  set  forth  and  seek  her  in 
Faeryland. 

The  poet  further  devises  that  the  Faer}^  Queen  keep  her 
annual  feast  twelve  days,  twelve  separate  adventures  hap- 
pening in  that  time,  and  each  of  them  being  Undertaken  by 
a  knight. 

The  adventures  were  also  to  express  the  same  number 
of  moral  virtues.  The  Red-cross  Knight  expresses  Holi- 
ness ;  Sir  Gu3'on,  Temperance ;  Britomartis,  Chastity. 
The  adventures  of  the  Red-cross  Knight  shadow  forth  the 
histor}'  of  the  Church  of  England ;  the  distressed  knight 
is  Henrj'  IV.,  and  Envy  is  intended  to  glance  at  the  un- 
fortunate Mar}'  Queen  of  Scots.  The  Queen  Gloriana  and 
the  Huntress  Belphoebe  are  both  symbolical  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, whom,  as  Belphoebe,  Spenser  thus  daintily  describes : 

"  Her  ivorye  forehead  full  of  bountie  brave, 
Like  a  broad  table  did  itself  dispred, 
For  love  his  loftie  triumphes  to  engrave, 
And  write  the  battailes  of  his  great  god  head. 
All  good  and  honour  might  therein  be  red  ; 
For  there  their  dwelling  was.     And  when  she  spake, 
Sweet  wordes,  like  dropping  honey,  she  did  shed. 
And  'twixt  the  perles  and  rubins  softly  brake 
A  silver  sound,  that  heavenly  musicke  seemed  to  make.'* 

In  this  extract  may  be  seen  the  daint}^  luxuriousness  of 
Spenser  as  a  descriptive  poet  and  his  richness  of  fanc}'  and 
sweetness  of  conception  ;  yet  with  all  due  deference  to  the 


ELIZABETHAN   AGE,   AND   SPENSER.  83 

best  of  poets,  one  cannot  refrain  from  contrasting  in  imagi- 
nation with  this  flowery  ideal  a  matter-of-fact  picture  of 
England's  maiden  royalty.  Behold  a  stately  spinster  of 
fifty-five ;  her  head  adorned  with  reddish  hair,  a  snow- 
storm of  powder  and  a  pyramid  of  crowns  towering  up- 
ward from  the  vasty  depths  of  a  huge  ruff,  like  the  Sphinx 
asserting  itself  through  the  encroaching  sands  of  an  Egyp- 
tian desert ;  her  tall  majesty  encased  in  the  stubbornest  of 
hoops,  in  comparison  with  which  our  modern  crinoline  is 
doubtless  undulating,  and  "yclad  in  her  purple  gown  of  cloth 
of  gold,"  tricked  out  in  miscellaneous  showers  of  "gold- 
en agulets,  tortoise-shaped  buttons,  enamelled  oak-leaves 
and  acorns,"  "  so  indifierently  stitched  on,"  says  the  histo- 
rian, **  that  her  Highness  is  said  always  to  have  returned 
minus  a  portion,  whenever  she  appeared  in  pubUc,"  —  which 
important  loss  was  thus  recorded  in  the  court  memorandum, 
''  Lost  from  her  Majest3''s  back,  on  the  14th  of  May,  Anno 
21,  one  small  acorn  and  one  leaf  of  gold,  at  Westminster." 
Behold  her  thus  behind  a  huge  fan  of  red  and  white  feathers, 
*'  having  her  Majesty's  picture  within,  and  on  the  reverse  a 
device  with  a  crow  over  it,"  and  hear  on  fit  occasions,  issu- 
ing from  the  sweet  lips  among  the  poet's  *' dropping  honej^, 
'twixt  the  perles  and  rubins,"  a  good  round  oath  or  two  ;  be- 
hold the  "  ivory  forehead,  full  of  bountie  brave,"  distorted 
with  rage,  the  "  majestic  and  awful  ire,"  mounting  into 
uncontrollable  fury  till  this  daughter  of  Henry  VIII.  falls 
down  in  a  fit,  from  which  only  vinegar  and  stimulants,  it 
is  said,  could  revive  her ;  and  looking  on  this  picture  and 
then  on  Spenser's  rare  portrait,  we  may  at  least  give  the 
limner  credit  for  "  poetic  license."  We  shall,  however,  be 
less  inclined  to  censure  him  as  a  sycophant  when  we  remem- 
ber that  many  good  and  wise  men  were  guilty  of  the  same 
folly,  for  flattery  was  the  current  coin  at  the  court  of  Eliza- 
beth. Yet  over  the  faults  and  follies  of  this  dead  queen 
let  us  kindl}'  throw  the  veil  of  charity,  since  underlying 


84  ENGLISH   POETRY  AND  POETS. 

them  all  were  many  virtues  which  have  justly  endeared 
her  to  the  English  nation.  Her  maternal  regard  for 
her  people  and  wise  political  discretion  cannot  be  suffi- 
ciently extolled,  and  more  than  atone  for  her  manj^  defects 
of  character.  The  first  three  books  of  the  "  Faery  Queen  " 
contain  a  large  proportion  of  the  excellence  of  the  work. 
Though  the  latter  books  have  less  continuity  of  splendor, 
they  all  contain  innumerable  single  stanzas  and  short  pas- 
sages of  exquisite  beauty,  and  a  few  pictures  on  a  more 
extended  canvas,  which  are  reckoned  among  the  most  re- 
markable of  the  work,  —  such  as  the  prophetic  satire  in  an- 
ticipation of  the  Liberty  and  Equality  philosophj',  in  the 
second  canto  of  the  fifth  book.  The  ' '  Shepherd's  Calen- 
dar "  and  "  Mother  Hubbard's  Tale  "  are  the  most  remark- 
able works  of  Spenser,  written  before  the  "  Faery  Queen." 
The  former  work  is  remarkable  for  the  variety  of  measures 
in  which  it  is  composed.  A  panegyric  on  Queen  Ehzabeth 
in  the  fourth  eclogue  is  the  most  spirited  of  its  lyric  passages. 
Spenser's  "  Epithalamium  "  on  his  own  marriage  with  the 
Elizabeth  whose  wooing  is  related  b}'  him  in  a  series  of 
eighty-eight  sonnets  is  accounted  the  most  splendid  spousal 
verse  in  the  language.  He  concludes  it  with  the  true  proph- 
ecy that  it  shall  stand  a  perpetual  monument  of  his  happi- 
ness. There  is  nothing  in  EngUsh  poetry  more  beautiful 
than  the  passage  in  which  he  describes  his  youthful  bride : 

•*  Behold,  while  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks 
And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands. 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks. 
And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  yermeil  stain 
Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain  ; 
That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 
Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair 
The  more  they  on  it  stare." 


I 


ELIZABETHAN  AGE,  AND  SPENSER.  85 

In  fancy  and  invention  Spenser  is  unrivalled.  He  dis- 
plays but  little  comic  talent,  occasional  visionary  sublim- 
ity, and  a  pensive  tenderness  often  approaching  to  the 
finest  pathos.  His  versification  is  to  the  last  degree  flowing 
and  harmonious.  In  the  stanza  which  he  first  made  use 
of,  and  which  is  called  by  his  name  and  recommended  by 
its  fulness  and  richness,  its  flowing  melody,  and  the  stately 
cadence  with  which  it  closes,  it  has  been  asserted  that  "  of 
the  many  who  have  been  led  to  follow  his  example,  no  one 
has  equalled  and  few  have  approached  him."  Though 
never  intensel}^  impassioned,  he  completely  holds  us  by 
his  fancy  and  invention.  In  the  "Faery  Queen,"  though 
we  are  wearied  by  his  "  dark  conceit,"  and  often  fain  to 
drop  the  allegory  altogether,  our  admiration  for  its  pure 
poesy  never  flags. 

Spenser  is  the  true  poet  of  chivalry  and  romance ;  to 
read  him  is  like  floating  in  a  gorgeous  dream  through  en- 
chanted Venice,  in  the  mellow  noon  of  an  Italian  night, 
showered  by  silvery  moonbeams,  fanned  by  airs  that  have 
lingered  in  orange  groves,  and  serened  by  rhythmical 
cadence  of  rippling  oar,  and  song  of  gondolier.  In  youth 
and  in  riper  years  we  turn  to  the  *'  Faery  Queen  "  with 
ever-new  delight,  as  to  an  April  bank  thick-dotted  with 
violets,  or  a  sunn^^  woodland  slope  redolent  of  rose- tinged 
arbutus. 

Spenser's  faults  are  truly  said  to  have  arisen  out  of 
the  fulness  of  his  riches.  His  power  of  circumstantial 
description  betra3'ed  him  into  an  elaboration  which  often 
becomes  merely  tedious  minuteness ;  while  his  wonderful 
command  of  musical  language  led  him  often  to  protract  his 
narrative  till  the  attention  becomes  exhausted.  Diffusive- 
ness of  style  was  a  fault  common  to  the  age  in  which  he 
wrote ;  and  indeed  we  find  it  in  all  poetical  composition 
antecedent  to  Shakespeare  —  who  foreran  his  age  —  while 


86        ENGLISH  POETEY  AND  POETS. 

Spenser,  as  has  been  observed,  **  leaned  towards  the  olden 
time,"  and  was  censured  by  his  cotemporaries  and  their 
successors  for  introducing  "  new  graftes  of  old  and  with- 
ered words."  Conciseness  of  style,  one  of  the  prime 
excellencies  of  poetical  composition,  we  may  not  look  for 
in  the  infancy  of  the  art,  or  even  in  its  lusty  youth  ;  it  is 
alone  the  product  of  its  ripe  and  rounded  maturity. 
Macaulay,  indeed,  asserts  that  "  the  great  works  of  imag- 
ination which  have  appeared  in  the  Dark  Ages  most  com- 
mand our  admiration ;  "  but  let  us  not  admit  with  him 
that  "  as  civilization  advances,  poetry  almost  necessarily 
declines."  The  "  poetical  temper ament  ma^'  indeed  de- 
cline with  civilization ; "  but  the  poet,  we  trust,  is  the  in- 
digenous and  unfailing  product  of  all  time. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  in  Spenser's  day  life  rum- 
bled leisurely  along  in  slow-coaches.  The  man  who  could 
afford  to  execute  eighty-eight  elaborate  sonnets  for  the 
wooing  of  but  one  fair  lad}',  had  surely  not  attained  to  our 
modern  facility  in  '*  popping  the  question  ; "  and  we  may 
at  least  believe  him  to  have  had  more  leisure  for  both  woo- 
ing and  rhyming  than  is  allotted  to  a  busy  poet  in  this 
hurried  nineteenth  century.  If  he  could  but  have  super- 
added to  his  marvellous  fancy  and  invention,  his  flowing 
harmony,  and  exquisite  sense  of  beauty,  the  concise  ele- 
gance which  so  captivates  us  in  the  verse  of  Longfellow 
and  of  Holmes,  the  "  Faery  Queen,"  certainly  not  in  six 
books,  possibly  in  o?ie,  would  have  been  entitled  to  stand 
in  proud  pre-eminence,  the  eternal  master-piece  of  the 
art! 

Though  Spenser  presents  to  us  a  few  pictures  over  which 
modern  decorum  would  draw  a  veil,  he  offends  merely 
against  good  taste,  never  against  good  morals.  And  it 
has  been  justly  and  beautifully  observed  that  "  such 
passages  in  Spenser  differ  from  the  covert  form  in  which 


ELIZABETHAN  AGE,  AND  SPENSER.  87 

licentiousness  is  insinuated  in  many  modern  poems,  as  the 
naked  majesty  of  Diana  differs  from  the  voluptuous  undress 
of  Aspasia."  The  absence  of  an  interesting  story,  the 
want  of  human  character  and  passion  in  the  passages  that 
carry  on  the  story,  such  as  it  is,  have  been  pronounced 
no  defects  in  the  "  Faery  Queen,"  since  the  poetry  is  only 
left  thereby  so  much  the  purer.  ''  If  Spenser  was  not  the 
greatest  of  poets,"  observes  Craik,  "  we  may  truly  say  his 
poetry  is  the  most  poetical  of  all  poetry."  Here  is  a 
picture  from  Spenser's  allegory,  —  a  masker  from  the 
pageant  raised  by  the  enchanter,  to  beguile  the  sad  heart 
of  Amoret :  — 

"  The  first  was  Fancy,  like  a  lovely  boy 
Of  rare  aspect,  and  beauty  without  peer, 
Matchable  either  to  that  imp  of  Troy 
Whom  Jove  did  love,  and  choose  his  cup  to  bear ; 
Or  that  same  dainty  lad  which  was  so  dear 
To  great  Alcides  that  whenas  he  died, 
He  wailed  woman-like  with  many  a  tear. 
And  every  wood,  and  every  valley  wide. 
He  filled  with  Hylas'  name ;  the  nymphs  eke  Hylas  cried. 

"  His  garment  neither  was  of  silk  nor  say, 
But  painted  plumes  in  goodly  order  dight, 
Like  as  the  sunburnt  Indians  do  array 
Their  tawny  bodies  in  the  proudest  plight. 
As  these  same  plumes,  so  seemed  he  vain  and  light, 
That  by  his  gait  might  easily  appear ; 
For  still  he  fared  as  dancing  in  delight, 
And  in  his  hand  a  windy  fan  did  bear. 
That  in  the  idle  air  he  moved  still  here  and  there." 

But  half  of  Spenser's  original  design  of  the  "  Faery 
Queen  "  was  finished.  Six  of  the  twelve  adventures  and 
moral  virtues  were  produced  ;  but  length  of  days  was  not 
granted  the  poet  to  complete  on  earth  his  moral  and 
poetical  gallery.     It  has  been  conjectured  that  the  remain- 


88  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

iDg  half  was  lost,  but  this  supposition  is  almost  ground- 
less. Unfortunately  the  world  saw  only  some  fragments 
more  of  the  work.  The  last  touching  and  prophetic  notes 
of  this  sweet  singer  may  be  found  in  the  eighth  imperfect 
canto,  broken  off  abruptly',  as  if  the  poet  had  sung  no 
further,  but  gone  up  to  eternal  harmonies  with  these  last 
words  upon  his  lips:  — 

"  Then  gin  I  think  on  that  which  Nature  sayd, 
Of  that  same  time  when  no  more  change  shall  be, 
But  stedfast  rest  of  all  things  firmly  stayed 
Upon  the  pillours  of  Eternity 
That  is  contrayre  to  mutability ; 
For  all  that  moveth  doth  in  change  delight  ; 
But  thenceforth  all  shall  rest  eternally 
With  him  that  is  the  God  of  Sabaoth  hight. 
O  that  great  Sabaoth  God,  grant  me  that  Sabbath's  sight !  " 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  89 


CHAPTER  YI. 

MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY. 

BEFORE  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  wisest 
and  most  productive  age  of  our  poetical  literature 
had  fairly  commenced.  Spenser  alone  had  added  to  the 
language  a  world  of  wealth,  —  a  golden  inheritance  for  all 
posterity.  Of  the  minor  poets  of  the  Elizabethan  age, 
who  succeeded  liim  by  hundreds,  few  are  altogether  with- 
out merit ;  "all  have  caught  some  echoes  of  the  spirit  of 
music  that  then  filled  the  universal  air." 

The  minor  Elizabethan  poetry  is  for  the  most  part 
remarkable  for  ingenuity  and  elaboration,  and  for  quaint- 
ness  of  thought  and  expression.  It  has  been  observed 
that  "there  is  often  more  art  in  it  than  nature,  yet  if  it  is 
sometimes  unnatural,  it  is  very  seldom  simply  insipid,  like 
much  of  the  well-sounding  verse  of  more  recent  eras." 

Cotemporary  with  Spenser  is  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who 
in  1554-86  takes  his  rank  in  English  literar}^  history 
both  as  a  poet  and  a  prose-writer.  What  Surrey'  was  in 
the  court  of  Henry  VIII.,  Sidney  was  in  the  court  of 
Elizabeth,  who  counted  him  "the  jewel  of  her  times." 
Generous,  gallant,  and  accomplished,  we  assoxiiate  him 
with  all  the  fascinations  of  chivalry  and  romance.  The 
brightest  ornament  of  his  age,  he  is  still  handed  down  to 
us  as  a  model  of  knighthood  and  manhood.  His  braver}^ 
and  chivalrous  magnanimity,  his  grace  and  polish  of  man- 
ner, the  purity  of  his  morals,  his  learning  and  refinement. 


90  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


4 

yen  ■ 


won  for  him  universal  love  and  esteem ;  and  it  is  even 
said  that  in  1585  he  was  named  one  of  the  candidates  for 
the  crown  of  Poland,  at  that  time  vacant,  when  Elizabeth, 
being  unwilling  to  lose  him,  "  threw  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  his  election."  His  military  exploits  were  highly  honor- 
able. He  died  of  a  wound  received  at  Zutphen  in  October, 
1586,  at  the  early  age  of  thirtj'-two.  Ever}^  school- boy 
is  familiar  with  the  beautiful  story  of  his  abnegation  in 
favor  of  the  dying  soldier,  —  the  brightest  and  greenest 
leaf  in  the  immortal  bays  that  encircle  the  memory  of 
this  darling  of  fame,  of  whom  it  has  been  said,  ''he  trod 
from  his  cradle  to  his  grave  amid  incense  and  flowers, 
and  died  in  a  dream  of  glorj^ ! " 

The  poetry  of  Sidney,  though  it  is  now  comparatively 
but  little  read,  was  extravagantly  admired  in  his  own 
time.  His  graces  are  rather  those  of  artful  elaboration 
than  of  vivid  natural  expression.  His  style,  according 
to  the  fashion  of  the  da}-,  runs  into  conceits,  and  has 
also  some  want  of  animation  ;  yet  it  is  always  harmonious, 
and  rises  often  into  great  stateliness  and  splendor.  As  is 
the  man,  so  is  the  poet ;  and  it  has  been  happily  observed 
that  "  a  breath  of  beauty  and  noble  feeling  exhales  from 
his  productions  like  the  fragrance  from  a  garden  of  flow- 
ers." Sidney's  sonnets  to  Stella  —  the  Philoclea  of  his 
"  Arcadia  "  —  have  been  much  admired.  His  writings  are 
now  less  read  than  they  deserve,  and  undoubtedly  for  the 
same  reason  that  the  poetry  of  Shelley  (who,  lineally  de- 
scended from  the  same  noble  house,  was  in  many  respects 
the  counterj)art  of  Sidney-)  is  not  widely  appreciated  ;  they 
''lack"  —  as  Willis  expresses  it — "flesh  and  blood;" 
they  are  too  refined  and  impalpable  for  human  nature's 
daily  food. 

Cooper  has  called  Sidney  "  a  warbler  of  poetic  prose  ;" 
his  "  Arcadia  "  may  indeed  be  styled  a  prose  poem.    Modern 


I 


I 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  91 

critics  disagree  as  to  its  merits.  The  personal  fame  of 
its  author,  and  the  scarcity  of  works  of  fiction  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth,  are  supposed  in  some  degree  to  have  con- 
tributed to  the  admiration  it  excited  in  his  own  time. 
A  modern  critic  has  observed  that  ''  a  work  so  extensivel}' 
perused,  must  have  contributed  not  a  little  to  fix  the  Eng- 
lish tongue,  and  to  form  that  vigorous  and  imaginative 
style  which  characterizes  the  literature  of  the  beginning 
and  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century."  The  work  was 
not  intended  for  the  press,  but  was  written  chieflj^  for  the 
amusement  of  his  sister ;  and  he  gave  it  the  title  of  "The 
Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia."  The  ''Arcadia"  is  an 
uncompleted  work,  and  appeared  only  after  its  author's 
death.  The  Puritans  of  Sidney's  age,  in  their  mistaken 
crusade  against  poetry  and  art,  had  contemptuously  de- 
nominated poets  "Caterpillars  of  the  Commonwealth;" 
to  repel  their  objections  to  the  poetic  art  he  wrote  his 
tract  entitled  "The  Defence  of  Poesj^."  It  has  been 
justly  admired  for  the  beauty  of  its  style ;  and  though 
written  with  the  partiality  of  a  poet,  it  has  been  com- 
mended for  the  general  soundness  of  its  reasoning. 

The  Stella  whom  Sidney  addresses  was  the  eldest 
sister  of  the  favorite  Essex,  and  intended  from  her  child- 
hood for  his  bride.  For  reasons  which  do  not  appear, 
the  projected  marriage  was  broken  off  by  their  families, 
and  the  lady  was  married  by  her  guardian  to  Lord  Rich, 
her  declared  aversion.  She  is  described  as  a  woman  of 
exquisite  beauty,  on  a  grand  and  splendid  scale.  Passion- 
ately beloved  to  the  last  by  Sidnej^,  whose  love  should 
have  "set  her  high  in  heaven  as  any  star,"  one  can  hardly 
believe  that  this  woman's  after-life  was  not  above  re- 
proach. This  sonnet,  addressed  to  one  who  has  lately 
left  the  presence  of  Stella,  and  of  whom  he  inquires  of 
her  welfare,  "  will,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "  commend  itself 


92        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

for  truth  and  beauty  to  all  who  have  known  the  agony 
separation  from  one  beloved." 

"  Be  your  words,  good  Sir,  of  Indian  ware. 
That  you  allow  them  at  so  small  a  rate  ? 
When  I  demand  of  Phenix  Stella's  state, 
You  say,  forsooth,  you  left  her  well  of  late. 

0  God !  think  you  that  satisfies  my  care  ? 

1  would  know  whether  she  doth  sit  or  walk,  — 
How  clothed,  how  waited  on  ?  Sighed  she,  or  smiled  ? 
With  what  pastime  Time's  journey  she  beguiled  1 

If  her  lips  deigned  to  sweeten  my  poor  name  1 
Say  all,  and  all  well  said,  stiU  say  the  same !  ** 

This  sonnet  to  '*  Sleep"  is  one  of  Sidney's  best,  and 
may  be  regarded  as  a  fairer  specimen  of  his  style. 

"  Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  —  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting  place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  high  and  low. 
With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out  the  press 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw ; 

0  make  me  in  those  civil  wars  to  cease. 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 
Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed ; 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me 
Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see." 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  born  in  1552,  though  he  has  left  us 
much  more  prose  than  verse,  deserves  for  the  excellence 
of  his  few  short  poems  a  place  among  the  poets  of  Eliza- 
beth's reign.  In  the  character  of  this  noble  knight  we 
have  the  brave  and  chivalrous  soldier,  the  elegant  scholar, 
the  man  of  practical  energy,  and  the  sage  philosopher 
singularly  united.  ''Being  educated,"  observes  Hume, 
"  amidst  naval  and  military  enterprises,  he  surpassed  in 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.        93 

the  pursuits  of  literature  even  those  of  the  most  recluse 
and  sedentary  lives."  Of  an  ancient  famil3'  in  Devonshire, 
Raleigh  became  a  soldier  at  seventeen ;  at  twentj^-eight 
we  find  him  in  London.  The  loj^al  surrender  of  his  gay 
plush  mantle  for  the  protection  of  Elizabeth's  immaculate 
shoes  from  the  soiling  mud  in  her  pathway,  is  a  well-known 
incident.  This  ready  gallantry,  by  which  the  young  soldier 
won  the  favor  of  his  queen,  forcibl}^  illustrates  his  chivalry 
and  tact.  It  has  been  aptly  said  that  "  this  cloak  was 
the  means  of  procuring  him  many  a  good  suit." 

Of  an  adventurous  and  restless  disposition,  Raleigh 
became,  in  1585,  a  principal  abettor  of  the  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  colonize  Virginia.  This  expedition  was  the 
means  of  introducing  into  England  that  disreputable 
plant,  tobacco.  Elizabeth  knighted  him,  and  granted 
him  many  soUd  marks  of  her  favor,  in  return  for  which 
he  engaged  zealousl}^  in  her  service.  On  the  accession 
of  James,  Raleigh's  prosperity  came  to  an  end.  Through 
the  malignant  scheming  of  his  political  enemies,  he  was 
accused  of  conspiring  to  dethrone  the  king  and  place  the 
crown  on  the  head  of  Arabella  Stuart,  of  attempting  to 
excite  sedition,  and  to  establish  poperj'  by  the  aid  of 
foreign  powers.  Atrial  for  high  treason  ensued;  "and 
though  he  defended  himself,"  says  his  historian,  "  with 
such  temper,  eloquence,  and  strength  of  reasoning  that 
some  even  of  his  enemies  were  convinced  of  his  innocence, 
and  all  parties  were  ashamed  of  the  judgment  pro- 
nounced," Raleigh  was,  upon  the  paltriest  evidence,  con- 
demned by  a  servile  jury  to  death.  He  was,  however, 
reprieved,  and  committed  to  the  Tower.  During  the 
twelve  years  of  his  imprisonment  —  in  which  his  wife  was 
permitted  to  bear  him  company  —  Raleigh  wrote  most  of 
his  works,  of  which  his  "  History  of  the  World  "  is  the 
most  considerable.     This  work  was  considered,  both  in 


94  ENGLISPI  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

stj'le  and  matter,  superior  to  all  previous  English  his- 
torical productions.  In  1615  —  for  the  furtherance  of 
some  sordid  scheme  of  James  —  Raleigh  was  set  at 
libert3\  In  1618  he  was  again  arrested,  and  fell  a  sacri- 
fice to  the  selfish  polic}^  of  his  king.  He  was,  upon  the 
old  sentence,  beheaded  in  the  Tower,  October  29. 

On  the  scaffold,  Raleigh  justified  his  character  and  con- 
duct to  the  people,  and  was  brave  and  firm  to  the  last. 
Taking  up  the  axe,  he  said  to  the  sheriflT,  ' '  This  is  a  sharp 
medicine,  but  a  sound  cure  for  all  diseases,"  and  bade 
the  executioner  *'  fear  not,  but  strike  home  !  "  In  one  of 
Raleigh's  poems  occurs  this  striking  couplet ;  — 

"  Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and  streams ; 
The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  are  dumb." 

This  sonnet  of  Raleigh's,  prefixed  to  the  "  Faery  Queen, 
1590,  is  a  specimen  of  his  art,  and  illustrates   his   high 
estimation  of  the  work  :  — 

"  Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay, 
Within  that  temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn  ;  and  passing  by  that  way, 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame 
Whose  tomb  fair  Love  and  fairer  Virtue  kept. 
All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faery  Queen, 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept. 
And  from  thenceforth  those  Graces  were  not  seen, 
For  they  this  Queen  attended  ;  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse. 
Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed, 
And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  pierce, 
Where  Homer's  sprite  did  tremble  all  for  grief, 
And  cursed  th*  access  of  that  celestial  thief." 

A  whole  sermon  on  the  vanity  of  human  ambition  is 
condensed  into  these  six  lines  composed  by  Raleigh  just 
before  his  execution  :  — 


MINOR   ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  95 

"  Even  such  is  Time,  that  takes  on  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 
And  pays  us  but  with  age  and  dust ; 
Who  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways. 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days." 

Raleigh  introduced  Spenser  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  and 
otherwise  benefited  him  by  his  patronage  and  encourage- 
ment. Spenser  became  his  friend  and  confidant,  and  to 
him  the  poet  explained  the  "  dark  conceit "  of  his  "  Faery 
Queen." 

It  has  been  aflSrmed  of  Raleigh  that  "  had  he  made 
poetr}^  a  serious  pursuit  he  would  have  excelled  in  that, 
as  he  has  in  other  departments  of  learning." 

Daniel,  born  in  1562,  —  after  the  death  of  Spenser, — 
was  in  the  reign  of  James,  1603,  appointed  Master  of 
the  Revels,  and  afterward  preferred  to  be  a  groom  of 
the  chamber  to  Queen  Anne. 

Toward  the  close  of  his  life  Daniel  retired  from  court, 
and  died  in  October,  1619. 

His  extremely  dull  works  fill  two  considerable  volumes  ; 
3'et  it  is  only  by  virtue  of  some  of  his  minor  pieces  and 
sonnets  that  he  retains  his  place  among  the  English 
poets. 

One  of  the  most  voluminous  poets  of  the  time  is 
Michael  Dra3'ton,  supposed  to  have  been  born  in  1563, 
and  dying  in  1631.  Drayton  has  the  fancy  and  feel- 
ing of  the  true  poet.  He  is  the  author  of  many  minor 
compositions,  and  of  three  works  of  great  length.  His 
"Barons'  Wars"  was  published  in  1596,  his  "Eng- 
land's Heroical  Epistles  "  in  1598.  His  "  Polyolbion"  — 
a  poetical  descr-iption  of  England,  the  work  on  which  his 
fame  principally  rests,  —  contains  thirty  books.  Its  pub- 
lication was  completed  in  1622. 


96  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

It  has  some  poetic  merit,  but  is  thought  to  be  most 
remarkable  for  the  learning  it  displays.  The  information 
contained  in  this  work  is  in  general  so  accurate  that  it 
is  quoted  as  an  authority.  Draj'ton's  most  graceful 
poetr}^  may  be  found  in  some  of  his  shorter  pieces.  His 
account  of  the  equipage  of  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies, 
when  she  set  out  to  visit  her  lover,  Pigwiggen,  is  a  speci- 
men of  his  lighter  stj'le,  and  "  may,"  observes  Craik, 
"  compare  with  Shakespeare's  description  of  Queen  Mab, 
in  '  Romeo  and  Juliet.'  " 


"  Her  chariot  straight  is  ready  made, 
Each  thing  therein  is  fitting  laid, 
That  she  by  nothing  might  be  stay'd. 

For  nought  must  be  her  letting. 
Four  nimble  gnats  the  horses  were. 
Their  harnesses  of  gossamere. 
Fly  Cranium,  her  charioteer. 

Upon  the  coach-box  getting. 

"  Her  chariot  of  a  snail's  fine  shell, 
Which  for  the  colours  did  excel. 
The  fair  Queen  Mab  becoming  well, 

So  lively  was  the  limning. 
The  seat  the  soft  wool  of  the  bee, 
The  cover  (gallantly  to  see) 
The  wing  of  a  py'd  butterflee, 

I  trow,  't  was  simple  trimming. 

"  The  wheels  composed  of  cricket's  bones, 
And  daintily  made  for  the  nonce  ; 
For  fear  of  rattling  on  the  stones, 

With  thistle-down  they  shod  it. 
For  all  her  maidens  much  did  fear. 
If  Oberon  had  chanced  to  hear 
That  Mab  his  queen  should  have  been  there. 

He  would  not  have  abode  it. 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  97 

*'  She  mounts  her  chariot  in  a  trice, 
Nor  would  she  stay  for  no  advice, 
Until  her  maids,  that  were  so  nice. 

To  wait  on  her  were  fitted. 
But  ran  herself  away  alone  ; 
Whicli  when  they  heard,  there  was  not  one 
But  hasted  after  to  be  gone. 

As  she  had  been  diswitted. 

"  Hop  and  Mop  and  Drab,  so  clear, 
Pip  and  Trip  and  Skip,  that  were 
To  Mab  their  sovereign  dear. 

Her  special  maids  of  honour ; 
Fib  and  Tib  and  Pink  and  Pin, 
Tick  and  Quick  and  Jill  and  Fin, 
Tit  and  Nit  and  Wap  and  Win,  , 

The  train  that  wait  upon  her. 

"  Upon  a  grasshopper  tliey  got, 
And  what  with  amble  and  with  trot. 
For  hedge  or  ditch  they  spared  not. 

But  after  her  they  hie  them. 
A  cobweb  over  them  they  throw, 
To  shield  the  wind,  if  it  should  blow. 
Themselves  they  wisely  could  bestow 

Lest  any  should  espy  them." 

The  most  eminent  translators  of  foreign  poetry  belong- 
ing to  this  period  are  Harrington  and  Fairfax. 

Sir  John  Harrington,  the  first  translator  of  Ariosto  into 
English,  was  a  courtier  and  godson  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 
His  father,  Sir  John  Harrington  the  elder,  was  impris- 
oned in  the  Tower  with  Elizabeth  in  the  reign  of  Mar}', 
from  whence  he  addressed  a  satirical  sonnet  to  Gardiner, 
which  it  is  said  so  won  his  admiration  as  to  move  him  to 
the  release  of  his  prisoner.  In  sending  the  order  for 
Harrington's  enlargement,  he  grimly  observed  that  "but 
for  his  saucy  sonnet,  he  was  worthy  to  have  lain  a  j-ear 

7 


98  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND   POETS. 

longer  in  the  Tower."  Harrington's  translation  from 
Ariosto  is  thought  to  have  but  little  merit.  His  epi- 
grams are  his  most  successful  efforts  at  composition. 
They  are  said  to  have  lashed  the  leading  men  of  Eliza- 
beth's court  so  severely  that  her  Highness  "  signified  in 
outward  manner  her  displeasure  with  her  witty  god- 
son, though  she  did  like  the  marrow  of  the  book.*'  In 
one  of  his  gossiping  letters  Harrington  pleasantly  relates 
this  characteristic  anecdote  of  his  whimsical  godmother. 
"On  Sunday,"  he  says,  ''  April  last,  my  Lord  of  London 
preached  tP  the  Queen's  Majesty,  and  seemed  to  touch 
on  the  vanity  of  decking  tlie  body  too  finely.  Her  Maj- 
esty told  the  ladies  that  if  the  bishop  held  more  dis- 
course on  such  matters  she  would  fit  him  for  heaven,  but 
he  should  walk  thither  without  a  staff  and  leave  his  man- 
tle behind  him.  .  .  .  Perchance,"  he  shrewdly  adds,  "the 
bishop  hath  not  seen  her  Highness's  wardrobe." 

Well  might  his  reverend  Lordship  have  shaken  in  his 
shoes  if  after  that  unlucky  sermon  a  panorama  of 
Elizabeth's  "  three  thousand  gowns,  and  eighty  wigs  of 
divers  colors"  had  passed  in  SLrray  before  him. 

Harrington's  talent  for  epigram  may  be  seen  in  this,  of 
a  precise  tailor,  — 

"A  tailor,  thought  a  man  of  upright  dealing, — 
True,  but  for  lying ;  honest,  but  for  stealing,  — 
Did  fall  one  day  extremely  sick  by  chance, 
And  on  the  sudden  was  in  wondrous  trance. 
The  fiends  of  hell,  mustering  in  fearful  manner, 
Of  sundry  colored  silks  displayed  a  banner 
"Which  he  had  stolen,  and  wished,  as  they  did  teU, 
That  he  might  find  it  all  one  day  in  hell. 
The  man,  affrighted  with  this  apparition, 
Upon  recovery  grew  a  great  precisijin. 
He  bought  a  Bible  of  the  best  translation. 
And  in  his  life  he  showed  great  reformation. 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  99 

He  walked  mannerly ;  he  talked  meekly ; 

He  heard  three  lectures  and  two  sermons  weekly ; 

He  vowed  to  shun  all  company  unruly, 

And  in  his  speech  he  used  no  oath  but  truly ; 

And  zealously  to  keep  the  Sabbath's  rest, 

His  meat  for  that  day  on  the  eve  was  drest ; 

And  lest  the  custom  which  he  had  to  steal 

Might  cause  him  sometimes  to  forget  his  zeal. 

He  gives  his  journeyman  a  special  charge 

That  if  the  stuff,  allowance  being  large. 

He  found  his  fingers  were  to  filch  inclined, 

Bid  him  to  have  the  banner  in  his  mind. 

This  done  (I  scant  can  tell  the  rest  for  laughter), 

A  captain  of  a  ship  came  three  days  after. 

And  bought  three  yards  of  velvet  and  three  quarters, 

To  make  Venitians  down  below  the  garters. 

He  that  precisely  knew  what  was  enough 

Soon  slipt  aside  three  quarters  of  the  stuff ; 

His  man,  espying  it,  said  in  derision, 

*  Master,  remember  how  you  saw  the  vision ! ' 

*  Peace,  knave ! '  quoth  he,  '  I  did  not  see  a  rag 
Of  such  a  colored  silk  in  all  the  flag.' " 

To  this  period  belongs  Fairfax,  translator  of  Tasso's 
"Jerusalem  Delivered."  Dryden  ranked  this  writer  with 
Spenser  as  a  master  of  our  language,  and  Waller  allowed 
that  he  derived  from  Fairfax  the  harmon}^  of  his  numbers. 
The  date  of  his  birth  is  unknown.  It  is  on  record  that 
he  was  living  in  1639. 

Dr.  John  Donne,  the  famous  dean  of  St.  Paul's,  wrote 
most  of  his  poetry  before  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tur}',  though  none  of  it  was  published  till  late  in  the 
reign  of  James.  Donne  ma}^  safelj-  be  classed  with  Wil- 
son's "  mj'stical  wisemen  and  poetical  clerkes,  delighting 
much  in  their  own  darkness,  especially  when  none  can  tell 
what  they  do  say."  .  Of  this  metaphysical  poet  an  able 
critic  observes:  "He  has  used  all  the  resources  of  the 
language,  not  to  express  thought,  but  to  conceal  it ;  but 


100       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

running  through  all  this  bewilderment,  a  deeper  insight 
detects  not  only  a  vein  of  the  most  exuberant  wit,  but 
often  the  sunniest  and  most  delicate  fanc}'  and  the  truest 
tenderness  and  depth  of  feeling.  Nor  can  it  be  ques- 
tioned that  the  peculiar  construction  of  Donne's  verses 
was  conceived  as  adapted  b}'  choice  and  s^'stem ;  their 
harshness  was  a  part  of  their  relish." 

Donne  was  distinguished  for  his  great  abilities  and  the 
amiabilit}"  of  his  character.  By  a  secret  marriage  with 
the  daughter  of  Sir  George  Moore,  Lord  Lieutenant  of 
the  Tower,  he  fell  into  trouble  and  povert3\  His  domes- 
tic trials  are  said  to  have  comprised  every  varietj'  of 
wretchedness  except  that  of  separation  from  his  wife,  for 
whom  his  tenderness  was  unbounded,  and  for  whose  loss 
his  grief  is  said  to  have  been  so  overwhelming  as  to 
endanger  his  reason. 

Craik  observes  that  *'  in  endeavoring  to  give  expression 
to  his  inexpressible  passion  for  her,  he  has  exhausted  all 
the  eccentricities  of  language." 

These  stanzas  from  one  of  his  parting  songs,  though 
in  his  own  riddling  style,  are  in  sentiment  exquisitely 
beautiful. 

"  As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away, 
And  whisper  to  their  souls  to  go, 
Whilst  some  of  their  sad  friends  do  say, 
The  breath  goes  now,  and  some  say,  no; 

"  So  let  us  melt,  and  make  no  noise, 

No  tear-floods,  no  sigh-tempests  move ; 
'  T  were  profanation  of  our  joys 
To  tell  the  laity  our  love. 

"Dull  sublunary  lover's  love 

(Whose  soul  is  sense)  cannot  admit 
Absence,  because  it  doth  remove 
Those  things  which  alimented  it. 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  101 

"  But  we  're  by  love  so  much  refined 
That  ourselves  know  what  it  is ; 
Inter-assured  of  the  mind, 

Careless  eyes,  lips,  and  hands  to  miss. 

"  Our  two  souls,  therefore  (which  are  one), 
Though  I  must  go,  endure  not  yet 
A  breach,  but  an  expansion, 
Like  gold  to  airy  thinness  beat. 

"  If  they  be  two,  they  are  two  so 
As  stiff  twin  compasses  are  two ; 
Thy  soul,  the  fix'd  foot,  makes  no  show 
To  move,  but  doth  if  th'  other  do. 

"  And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit, 

Yet  when  the  other  far  doth  roam,  , 

It  leans  and  hearkens  after  it, 
And  grows  erect  as  that  comes  home. 

"  Such  wilt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must, 
Like  th'  other  foot,  obliquely  run ; 
Thy  firmness  makes  my  circles  just, 
And  makes  me  end  where  I  begun." 

The  beautiful  little  song  of  Donne's,  beginning  "  Send 
home  my  long-strayed  eyes  to  me,"  has  far  more  har- 
mon}^  and  elegance  than  his  other  pieces,  and  has  been 
set  to  music.  These  four  lines  are  from  one  of  his  most 
elaborate  elegies :  — 

"Angels  did  hand  her  up,  who  next  God  dwell, 
For  she  was  of  that  order  whence  most  fell. 
Her  body  's  left  with  us,  lest  some  had  said 
She  could  not  die,  except  they  saw  her  dead." 

Donne  is  also  the  author  of  these  beautiful  and  often 
quoted  lines :  — 

"  The  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought. 
You  might  have  almost  said  her  body  thought." 


102       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


1 


Donne  died  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight,  in  1631. 

The  intimate  friend  of  Dr.  Donne  was  "  Holy  George 
Herbert."  Herbert  was  of  noble  birth,  descended  from 
the  earls  of  Pembroke,  and  born  in  Montgomery  Castle, 
Wales,  though  he  is  best  known  as  a  pious  country 
clerg3'man.  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  in  the 
year  1619  was  chosen  orator  for  the  University.  Lord 
Bacon  entertained  such  a  high  regard  for  his  learning  and 
judgment  that  he  is  said  to  have  submitted  to  him  his 
works  before  publication.  The  death  of  King  James 
deprived  him  of  a  lucrative  court  office,  which  had  for- 
merly been  given  by  Elizabeth  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney'. 
He  entered  into  sacred  orders,  and  was  made  rector  of 
Bemerton  in  Wiltshire,  where  he  passed  the  remainder  of 
his  life.  Herbert 's  strength  was  unequal  to  the  self- 
imposed  tasks  of  his  profession.  With  saint-like  zeal  and 
purity  he  discharged  his  clerical  duties,  but  died  at  the 
early  age  of  thirty-nine.  His  principal  production  is 
entitled  ''  The  Temple,  or,  Sacred  Poems  and  Private 
Ejaculations."  It  was  not  printed  till  a  few  years  after 
his  death,  and  was  so  well  received  that  two  thousand 
copies  are  said  to  have  been  sold  in  a  few  years  after  the 
first  impression.  Herbert  was  a  musician,  and  sang  to 
the  lute  or  viol  his  own  flowing  and  musical  hj^mns. 
Many  of  them  are  in  sentiment  exquisitely  beautiful, 
though  marred  by  the  absurd  conceits  and  unpoetical 
similes,  which,  however  intolerable  to  us,  were  the  fashion 
of  the  age.  A  preacher,  cotemporary  with  Herbert, 
harangued  the  Universit}^  of  Oxford,  and  was,  it  is  said, 
highly  applauded  by  that  learaed  body  for  his  eloquence, 
in  this  style:  "Arriving,"  said  he,  "at  the  mount  of 
St.  Mary's,  in  the  stony  stage  where  I  now  stand,  I  have 
brought  you  some  fine  biscuits,  baked  in  the  oven  of 
charity,  carefully  conserved  for  the  chickens  of  the  Church, 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  103 

the  sparrows  of  the  spirit,  and  the  sweet  swallows  of 
salvation,  —  which  wa}'  of  preaching,"  says  the  reporter 
of  this  hornilj^  "was  then  commended  b}^  the  generality 
of  scholars."  It  is  to  be  inferred  that  the  chickens  of  the 
Church  throve  mightil}"  under  this  culinary  shepherd  of 
souls.  In  Herbert's  well-known  hues  to  Virtue,  considered 
the  best  in  his  collection,  "the  rose  is  angrj'  and  brave, 
and  bids  the  rash  beholder  wipe  his  eye."  The  spring 
is  compared  to  a  box,  and  the  soul  to  seasoned  timber. 
Tlie  lyric  genius  of  the  poet  stjll  charms  us,  in  spite  of 
these  tasteless  conceits  ;  and  the  warm  and  sincere  piety 
which  breathes  through  all  his  writings  gives  to  them 
an  enduring  charm.  These  stanzas  are  finely  conceived, 
and  are  among  Herbert's  best.  The  piece  is  somewhat 
absurdly  called  b}^  its  author  — 


THE  PULLEY. 

Whex  God  at  first  made  man, 

Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by, 

"  Let  us,"  said  he,  "  pour  on  him  all  we  can; 
Let  the  world's  riches  which  dispersed  lie 
Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  away ; 

Then  beauty  flowed,  then  wisdom,  honor,  pleasure. 
When  almost  all  the  rest  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 

Perceiving  that  alone  of  all  his  treasure 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

*•  For  if  I  should,"  said  he, 

"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me. 

And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature, 
So  both  should  losers  be. 


104       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND   POETS. 

**  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 

But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness. 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary ;  that,  at  least, 

If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
May  toss  him  to  my  breast." 

George  Wither,  a  cotemporary  poet  of  little  power, 
has  some  true  poetical  feeling  and  expression.  He  was 
born  in  1588,  and  died  1667.  His  fame  as  a  poet  is 
derived  chiefly  from  his  early  productions,  written  before 
he  had  become  a  Puritan.  During  the  struggles  of  that 
period  he  was  made  prisoner  by  the  Royalists,  and  his 
life  was,  it  is  said,  only  saved  by  a  joke  of  his  brother 
bard,  Denham,  who  interfered  in  his  behalf,  alleging  that 
as  long  as  Wither  lived  he  (Denham)  would  not  be  con- 
sidered the  worst  poet  in  England.  Wither  is  sometimes 
harsh  and  obscure,  and  often  affected.  It  must  have 
been  before  he  imbibed  the  sectarian  gloom  of  the 
Puritans  that  he  wrote,  — 

"  Hang  sorrow  !     Care  will  kill  a  cat, 
And  therefore  let 's  be  merry." 

Francis  Quarles  is  a  religious  poet  of  this  time.  He 
was  born  in  1592,  and  died  1644.  His  "  Divine  Em- 
blems"  were  published  in  1645,  and  may  still  be  seen  in 
the  cottages  of  the  English  peasantr}',  among  whom  they 
were  exceedingly  popular.  He  was  in  his  day  for  this 
reason  called  "  the  darling  of  our  plebeian  judgments.'* 
Quarles  is  an  ascetic  poet,  and  some  of  his  homilies  in 
verse,  on  the  ''  Shortness  of  Life,"  and  the  ''  Vanity  of 
the  World,"  etc.,  suggest  d3'spepsia.  His  style  is  marred 
by  the  most  absurd  conceits,  but  he  has  some  true  wit 
and  poetic  conception.  This  little  poem,  on  the  "  Decay 
of  Life,"  is  a  specimen  of  his  style,  and  is  one  of  his 
best. 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  105 

"  The  day  grows  old,  the  low-pitched  lamp  hath  made 
No  less  than  treble  shade ; 
And  the  descending  damp  doth  now  prepare 
To  uncurl  bright  Titan's  hair, 
Whose  western  wardrobe  now  begins  to  unfold 
Her  purples,  fringed  with  gold. 
To  clothe  his  evening  glory,  when  the  alarms 
Of  rest  shall  call  to  rest  in  restless  Thetis'  arms. 

"  Nature  now  calls  to  supper,  to  refresh 
The  spirits  of  all  flesh. 

The  toiling  ploughman  drives  his  thirsty  teams 
To  taste  the  slippery  streams  . 
The  droiling  swineherd  knocks  away,  and  feasts 
His  hungry  whining  guests  : 
The  box-bill  ousel  and  the  dappled  thrush 
Like  hungry  rivals  meet  at  their  beloved  bush.** 

William  Habington,  born  in  1605,  of  an  ancient  Roman 
Catholic  family  in  Worcester,  is  one  of  the  most  grace- 
ful of  the  minor  poets  of  the  time.  His  poems  consist 
of  "  The  Mistress,"  "  The  Wife,"  and  "  The  Holy  Man." 
These  titles  each  include  several  copies  of  verses. 
Habington's  poetr}^  is  studded  with  the  conceits  of  the 
metaphysical  school  of  his  day,  and  is  deficient  in  power 
and  pathos,  yet  these  faults  are  redeemed  by  a  delicacy 
of  expression  uncommon  at  that  time.  He  is  said  to  have 
been  entirely  untainted  by  the  prevailing  Hcentiousness, 
and  his  sentiments  on  love  are  pure  and  noble.  Habing- 
ton claims  for  himself  the  honor  of  being  the  first  con- 
jugal poet  in  the  language.  He  married  Lucy  Powis,  a 
grand-daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Northumberland,  whom  he 
celebrates  as  "  Mistress  "  and  "  Wife,"  under  the  name  of 
Castara.  Habington  gives  us  this  sweet  picture  of  his 
Lucy ;  — 

"  Such  her  beauty  as  no  arts 

Have  enriched  with  borrowed  grace ; 


106  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts 

For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 
Folly  boasts  a  glorious  blood ; 
She  is  noblest  being  good ! 

"  She  her  throne  makes  reason  climb, 

While  wild  passions  captive  lie  . 
And  each  article  of  time 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  heaven  fly  . 
All  her  vows  religious  be, 
And  her  love  she  vows  to  me.*' 

His  poem  entitled  "To  Roses,  in  the  bosom  of  Castara," 
is  in  the  graceful  stj'le  of  Waller,  but  pure  and  natural 
in  sentiment.  He  died  in  1654,  —  the  first  year  of  the 
Protectorate. 

Robert  Herrick  is  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  our  early 
tyrical  poets,  born  in  1591.  His  "  Hesperides,  or.  Works 
both  Human  and  Divine  of  Robert  Herrick,"  was  pub- 
lished in  1648.  Herrick  was  "  one  of  the  jovial  spirits 
who  quaffed  the  mighty  bowl  with  rare  Ben  Jonson,"  and 
though  a  Devonshire  vicar  for  twenty  years,  many  of  his 
rhymes  confer  but  little  credit  on  the  sacred  profession. 
Gayety  was  the  natural  element  of  Herrick.  His  phil- 
osophy seems  to  have  been  epicurean.  He  bids  us 
"gather  the  rosebuds;  to-morrow  we  die."  His  poems 
abound  in  lively  conceits,  playful  fancy,  natural  feeling, 
and  the  sweetest  pathos,  that  wins  its  waj^  to  the  heart. 
His  language  is  chastely  beautiful  and  picturesque,  and 
it  has  been  observed  of  his  versification  that  it  is  har- 
mony itself. 

Herrick's  shorter  lyrics,  some  of  which  have  been  set 
to  music,  are  sung,  quoted,  and  admired  b}^  all  lovers  of 
song.  The  most  exquisite  are  those  entitled  "  To  Blos- 
soms," "  To  Daffodils,"  "  To  Primroses,"  and  "  Gather  the 
Rosebuds  while  ye  may."      Among  Herrick's  lyrics  this 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  lOT 

latter  is  not  only  sweet  with  the  rare  grace  of  the  poet, 
but  highly  characteristic  of  the  man. 

"  Gather  the  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 
Old  time  is  still  a-flying ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 
To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

"  The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun. 
The  higher  he  's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run. 
And  nearer  he 's  to  setting. 

"  That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
"When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 
But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Time  shall  succeed  the  former. 

"  Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time. 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry ; 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry." 

This  to  "  Primroses  filled  with  Morning  Dew,"  is  in 
Herrick's  happiest  vein,  and  exhibits  the  dainty  beauty 
of  his  style,  and  his  tender  pathos,  that  is  sometimes 
like  a  sob  or  a  quick  gush  of  tears. 

"  Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  1     Can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you 
"Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teemed  her  refreshing  dewl 
Alas !  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower, 
Nor  felt  the  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind  ; 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years. 
Or  warped  as  we. 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers  like  to  orphans  young, 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 


108  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  Speak,  whimp'ring  younglings,  and  make  known 
The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep  ; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 
Or  childish  lullaby? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet  1 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweetheart  to  this  ? 
No,  no  ;  this  sorrow  shown 
By  your  tears  shed, 
Would  have  this  lecture  read  : 
That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceived  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears  brought  forth." 

Unfortunately  Herrick  has  bequeathed  us  verses  far  less 
circumspect  than  these,  for  which  reckless  productions  he 
penitently  craves  divine  forgiveness  ;  and  when  we  remem- 
ber that  FalstafTs  bane,  —  canary-sack,  —  rather  than  de- 
liberate coarseness,  was  the  cause  of  these  unhappy  lapses 
from  propriety,  we  must  charitabl}^  accord  him  our  own. 
Thus  he  repents  him  of  his  errors :  — 

"  For  these  my  unbaptized  rhymes. 
Writ  in  my  wild  unhallowed  times, 
For  every  sentence,  clause,  and  word. 
That 's  not  inlaid  with  thee,  0  Lord  ! 
Forgive  me,  God,  and  blot  each  line 
Out  of  my  book  that  is  not  thine  ! 
But  if,  'mongst  all,  thou  fiudest  one 
Worthy  thy  benediction, 
That  one  of  all  the  rest  shall  be 
The  glory  of  my  work  and  me." 

Belonging  to  this  period  is  Richard  Crashaw,  a  religious 
poet  of  high  genius.  The  date  of  his  birth  is  not  known. 
He  died  about  the  year  1650.  Crashaw  was  an  accom- 
plished scholar;  and  his  translations  from  the  Latin 
and  Italian  have  been  much  praised  for  freedom,  force, 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETRY.  109 

and  beauty.  He  became  a  prosel^'te  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith,  and  subsequent!}'  a  canon  of  the  Church  of 
Loretto. 

Crashaw  is  mj'stical  in  style  and  thought.  His  verse 
abounds  in  metaphor  and  conceit ;  yet  he  is  seldom  dull, 
and  his  versification  is  often  highly  musical.  He  has 
genuine  poetic  genius,  and  after  Donne,  ma}'  be  con- 
sidered the  greatest  religious  poet  of  the  age.  In  one  of 
his  poems  occurs  the  well-known  conceit  relative  to  the 
miracle  of  water  being  turned  to  wine :  — 

"  The  conscious  water  saw  its  God,  and  blushed." 

These  fine  lines  are  also  his  :  — 

"  A  happy  soul,  that  all  the  way 
To  heaven  hath  a  summer  day." 

This  extract  is  from  Crashaw's  "  Temperance,  or,  The 
Cheap  Physician  :  "  — 

"  Age  ?     Wouldst  see  December  smile  ? 
Wouldst  see  nests  of  new  roses  grow 
In  a  bed  of  reverend  snow ; 
Warm  thoughts,  free  spirits  flattering 
"Winter's  self  into  a  Spring  ? 
In  sum,  wouldst  see  a  man  that  can 
Live  to  be  old,  and  still  a  man  ? 
Whose  latest  and  most  leaden  hours 
Fall  with  soft  wings,  stuck  with  soft  flowers ; 
And  when  life's  sweet  fable  ends. 
Soul  and  body  part  like  friends,  — 
No  quarrels,  murmurs,  no  delay ; 
A  kiss,  a  sigh,  and  so  away. 
This  rare  one,  reader,  wouldst  thou  see  ? 
Hark,  hither  !  and  thyself  be  he." 

Among  the  miscellaneous  poets  of  this  period  we  have 
Sylvester  and  Barnwell  and  Marlowe  the  dramatist. 
Marlowe's  ''Passionate  Shepherd"  is   a  poem   of  great 


110  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

beauty.  Sylvester  claims  notice  as  the  now  generally 
received  author  of  the  ''  Soul's  Errand,"  an  impressive 
poem  long  accredited  to  Raleigh. 

Warner,  Daniel,  and  Drayton,  are  the  three  poets  most 
conspicuous  in  the  period  immediately  succeeding  Spenser. 
The  two  latter  have  been  already  noticed,  but  Warner's 
"  Albion's  England  "  must  be  noted  as  a  lively  and  amus- 
ing poem,  — in  form  a  history  of  Southern  Britain,  from  the 
Deluge  to  the  reign  of  James  I.  It  embraces  every  strik- 
ing event  or  legend  which  the  old  chronicles  afford.  It 
has  force,  vivacity,  and  graphic  description,  but  little  of 
high  imaginative  art,  and  is  held  now  to  have  been  es- 
pecially suitable  for  a  more  barbarous  age. 

Warner  was  an  attorney  by  profession ;  and  his  st3'le, 
curt,  direct  and  clear,  was  in  his  day  much  admired. 
This  fable  is  one  of  its  neatest  specimens :  — 

"  An  ass,  an  old  man,  and  a  boy  did  through  the  city  pass ; 
And  whiles  the  wanton  boy  did  ride,  the  old  man  led  the  ass. 
'  See  yonder  doting  fool,'  said  folks,  *  that  scarce  can  crawl  for  age, 
Doth  set  the  boy  upon  his  ass,  and  makes  himself  his  page.' 
Anon,  the  blamed  boy  alights,  and  lets  the  old  man  ride. 
And  as  the  old  man  did  before,  the  boy  the  ass  did  guide. 
But  passing  so,  the  people  then  did  much  the  old  man  blame. 
And  told  him,  *  Churl,  thy  limbs  be  tough ;  let  ride  the  boy,  for 

shame ! ' 
The  fault  thus  found,  both  man  and  boy  did  back  the  ass  and  ride ; 
Then  that  the  ass  was  overcharged  each  man  that  met  them  cried. 
Now  both  alight,  and  go  on  foot,  and  lead  the  empty  beast ; 
But  then  the  people  laugh,  and  say  that  one  might  ride  at  least. 
The  old  man,  seeing  that  he  could  no  ways  the  people  please. 
Not  blameless  then,  did  drive  the  ass,  and  drown  him.  in  the  seas." 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  HI 


CHAPTER  YII. 
OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 

IT  is  not  in  general  versification  alone  that  the  poetical 
strength  of  the  Elizabethan  age  is  chiefly  manifested ; 
toward  the  latter  part  of  Elizabeth's  reign  arose  the 
dramatic  form  of  composition  and  representation,  and  at- 
tracted nearly  all  the  poetical  genius  of  England. 

'*  At  the  dawn  of  modern  civilization,"  says  our  his- 
torian, "most  countries  of  modern  Europe  possessed  a  rude 
kind  of  theatrical  entertainment,  consisting  not  in  Ihose 
exhibitions  of  natural  character  and  incident  which  con- 
stituted the  plays  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  but  in 
representations  of  the  principal  supernatural  events  in 
the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  and  of  the  history  of  the 
saints,  whence  they  were  denominated  *  Miracle  plays.' 
Considered  favorable  to  the  diffusion  of  religious  feeling, 
they  were  under  the  immediate  management  of  the  clergy, 
by  whom  they  appear  also  to  have  been  acted." 

The  Miracle  play  of  Saint  Katharine,  to  which  allusion 
has  already  been  made,  was  acted  at  Dunstable  in  1119, 
and  was  the  first  theatrical  representation  in  England  of 
which  we  have  any  account ;  though  how  long  such  en- 
tertainments may  have  existed  there,  is  not  known. 

The  most  sacred  persons,  not  excluding  the  Deity  him- 
self, were  introduced  into  these  plays  ;  yet  judged  by  the 
traces  of  them  which  remain,  they  appear  to  have  been 
profane  and  indecorous  in  the  highest  degree.     "  In  the 


112       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


reign  of  Henry  Sixth,"  says  the  same  writer,  *'  persons 
representing  sentiments  and  abstract  ideas,  being  intro- 
duced into  the  Miracle  plays,  gave  birth  to  a  new  and 
improved  form  of  dramatic  compositions,  entirely  or 
chiefly  composed  of  such  characters,  and  called  '  Moral 
plays.'" 

As  it  required  some  poetical  and  dramatic  ingenuit}"  to 
image  forth  the  characters  and  assign  appropriate  speeches 
to  each,  the  "  Moral  plays  "  may  be  considered  as  a  great 
advance  upon  the  "  Miracles."  The  onl}^  scriptural  char- 
acter retained  in  them  was  the  Devil.  As  this  distin- 
guished personage  was  painted  as  black  as  he  should  be, 
amply  furnished  with  the  popular  hoof  and  horns,  and 
supplied  with  a  tail  of  becoming  length,  and  was  also 
perpetually  beaten  about  the  stage  b}^  an  attendant  char- 
acter called  the  "  Vice,"  it  is  to  be  inferred  that  he  not 
only  served  to  enliven  these  sober  entertainments,  but 
conveyed  the  sound  moral  lesson  which  was  intended. 
However  this  may  have  been,  the  Devil  was  then  the 
darling  of  the  multitude. 

"  My  husband,  Timothy  Tattle,"  says  the  good  gossip 
in  Ben  Jonson's  play,  "  was  wont  to  say  that  there  was 
no  play  without  a  fool  and  a  devil  in  it.  He  was  for  the 
Devil  still,  God  bless  him  !  The  Devil  for  his  money,  he 
would  say ;  I  would  fain  see  the  Devil." 

Moral  plays  appear  to  have  been  at  the  height  of  popu- 
larity in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  in  whose  reign  acting 
first  became  a  distinct  profession,  both  Miracle  and  Moral 
plaj's  having  previously  been  represented  b3'  clergj'men 
and  school-boys,  and  only  brought  forth  occasionally  as 
a  part  of  some  public  or  private  festivit}-. 

"  It  was  soon  found,"  continues  our  informant,  "that 
a  real  human  being,  with  a  real  name,  was  better  calcu- 
lated to  move  the  audience,  to  hold  their  attention,  and 


)ns    II 


OLD   ENGLISH  DRAMA.  113 

to  impress  them  with  moral  truths  than  a  being  who  only 
represented  a  notion  of  the  mind ;  and  in  the  early  pari 
of  the  sixteenth  centur}^  the  substitution  of  these  for  the 
sj^mbolical  characters  gradually  took  place  ;  and  thus,  with 
some  aid  from  the  Greek  dramatic  literature  which  now 
began  to  be  studied,  and  from  the  improved  theatres  of 
Italy  and  Spain,  the  genuine  English  drama  took  its 
rise. 

"The  regular  drama  was  from  its  commencement  di- 
vided into  Comedy  and  Tragedy,  the  elements  of  both 
being  found  quite  distinct  in  the  rude  entertainments 
we  have  described." 

The  Interlude  —  so  called  from  its  being  acted  in  the 
intervals  of  a  banquet  —  preceded  the  modern  comedy, 
and  generally  represented  some  familiar  incident  in  the 
style  of  the  broadest,  coarsest  farce. 

John  Hey  wood,  supported  as  a  wit,  musician,  and 
writer  of  plays  in  the  court  of  Henry  VIII.,  was  a* 
distinguished  writer  of  interludes,  and  is  considered  the 
inventor  of  this  species  of  writing. 

The  earliest  specimen  of  comedy  that  can  now  be  found, 
was  the  production  of  Nicolas  Udall,  master  of  the  West- 
minster School.  It  bears  the  uncouth  title  of  "  Ralph 
Royster  Doyster,"  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  written 
not  later  than  1551.  The  scene  is  in  London,  and  the 
characters  exhibit  the  manners  of  the  middle  class  of  that 
day.  It  is  divided  into  five  acts,  and  the  plot  is  amusing 
and  well  constructed. 

The  next  is  "  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,"  supposed  to 
have  been  written  about  1565,  or  still  earlier.  Tragedy, 
of  later  origin  than  comedy,  came  directly  from  the  more 
elevated  portions  of  the  Moral  plays,  and  from  the  pure 
models  of  Greece  and  Rome.  The  earliest  known  speci- 
men of  this  kind  of  composition  is  the  tragedy  of  "  Ferrex 


114  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

and  Porrex,"  composed  b}^  Thomas  Sackville — afterward 
Earl  of  Dorset  —  and  Thomas  Norton,  and  plaj'ed  before 
Queen  Elizabeth  at  Whitehall,  b}*  the  members  of  the 
Inner  Temple,  in  January,  1561. 

It  is  founded  on  a  fabulous  incident  in  earl}^  British 
history,  and  is  full  of  slaughter  and  civil  broils.  It  is, 
however,  written  in  regular  blank  verse,  consists  of 
five  acts,  and  bears  resemblance  to  the  classic  drama  of 
antiquity  in  the  introduction  of  a  chorus  ;  that  is,  a  group 
of  persons  whose  sole  business  it  is  to  intersperse  the 
pla}^  with  moral  observations  and  inferences  expressed  in 
lyrical  stanzas. 

Not  long  after  the  appearance  of  this  tragedy,  '^  Damon 
and  Pj'thias  "  —  the  first  English  tragedy  on  a  classical 
subject  —  was  acted  before  the  queen  at  Oxford,  in  1566. 
It  was  composed  by  Richard  Edwards,  a  learned  member 
of  the  Universit}^  written  in  rhyme,  and  inferior  to  "Ferrex 
and  Porrex."  "  Tancred  and  Gismunda,"  the  first  English 
play  taken  from  an  Italian  novel,  was  presented  before 
the  queen  in  1568. 

The  first  regularly  licensed  theatre  in  London  was 
opened  at  Black  friars  in  1576.  It  was  there  that  Shake- 
speare's immortal  dramas  first  saw  the  light ;  and  there  he 
unwillingly  —  to  borrow  his  own  words —  "  made  himself 
a  motley  to  the  view,"  in  his  character  of  an  actor. 

The  first  theatres  were  composed  of  wood,  of  a  circular 
form,  and  open  to  the  weather,  excepting  over  the  stage, 
which  was  covered  with  a  thatched  roof.  Outside,  on  the 
roof,  a  flag  was  hoisted  during  the  time  of  performance,  — 
which  commenced  at  three  o'clock,  at  the  third  sounding 
or  flourish  of  trumpets. 

*'  The  cavaliers,"  says  the  historian,  *'  and  fair  dames 
of  the  court  of  Elizabeth  sat  in  boxes  below  the  galler3% 
or  were  accommodated  with  stools  on  the 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  115 

some  of  the  young  gallants  also  threw  themselves  at  length 
on  the  rush-strewn  floor,  while  their  pages  handed  them 
pipes  and  tobacco,  —  then  a  fashionable  and  highly  prized 
luxury. 

*'Into  the  pit,  or  yard,  which  was  not  furnished  with 
seats,  the  middle  classes  were  crowded. 

"  Actresses  were  not  seen  on  the  stage  till  after  the 
Restoration ;  the  female  parts  were  played  by  boys,  or 
delicate  young  men."  It  has  been  observed  that  "while 
this  palliates  the  grossness  of  some  of  the  language  put 
into  the  mouth  of  females  in  the  old  plajs,  it  serves  to 
point  out  more  clearly  that  innate  sense  of  beauty  and 
excellence  which  prompted  the  exquisite  loveliness  and 
perfection  exhibited  in  Shakespeare's  ideals  of  woman- 
hood." Movable  scenery  was  not,  it  is  supposed,  in- 
troduced until  after  the  Restoration. 

Rude  imitations  of  towers,  woods,  animals,  or  furniture, 
served  to  illustrate  the  scene.  To  point  out  the  place  of 
action,  a  board  containing  the  name,  written  or  printed 
in  large  letters,  was  hung  out  during  the  performance. 

Anciently,  an  allegorical  exhibition,  called  the  ''Dumb 
Show,"  was  exhibited  before  every  act,  and  gave  an  out- 
line of  the  action  to  follow.  Before  dismissing  the  au- 
dience, the  actors  knelt  in  front  of  the  stage  and  ofl'ered 
up  a  prayer  for  the  queen.  In  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  Shakespeare,  in  the  rehearsal  of  "Pyramus  and 
Thisbe,"  seems  to  have  caricatured  the  rude  arrangements 
of  the  first  theatres.  It  has  been  observed  that  "  the 
decline  of  the  drama  may  in  a  great  measure  be  attributed 
to  the  splendid  representations  of  external  nature  in  our 
modem  theatres,  where  the  attention  of  the  audience  is 
directed  rather  to  the  efforts  of  the  painter  than  to  those 
of  the  actor,  who  is  lost  amid  the  man^ellous  effect  of  light 
and  shade  on  our  gigantic  stages."     This  assertion  is  not 


116  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

without  weight ;  yet  we  must,  I  think,  ascribe  the  deca}- 
of  dramatic  literature  to  other  and  weightier  causes,  on 
which  time  will  not  allow  us  to  dwell. 

The  English  drama,  which  rose  so  suddenly  and  bril- 
liantly on  the  Elizabethan  age,  grew  as  rapidly.  Between 
the  years  1568  and  1580  no  less  than  fifty-two  dramas 
were  acted  at  court  under  the  superintendence  of  the 
Master  of  Revels  ;  and  in  ten  years  from  the  opening  of 
the  first  theatre  there  were  two  hundred  players  in  or 
near  the  metropolis. 

Nearly  all  the  dramatic  authors  preceding  or  cotem- 
porary  with  Shakespeare  were  men  of  learning  and 
abilit3%  and  a  profusion  of  classic  imagery  abounds  in 
their  plays,  though  they  did  not  copy  the  severe  and 
correct  taste  of  the  ancient  models. 

Among  the  immediate  predecessors  of  the  great  poet 
are  some  worthy  of  separate  notice,  though,  as  has  been 
aptly  said,  "  they  must  not  be  thought  of  along  with  him, 
when  he  appears  before  us,  like  Prometheus,  moulding 
the  figures  of  men  and  breathing  into  them  the  animation 
and  all  the  passions  of  life."  As  these  dramatists  wrote 
to  supply  the  popular  demand  for  novelt}^  and  excitement, 
in  their  comedies  we  are  introduced  to  the  coarse  raillery 
and  comic  incidents  of  low  life,  and  their  tragedies 
abound  in  bloodshed  and  horror ;  yet  nearl}'  all  of  them, 
as  has  been  noted,  have  poetical  imagery,  bursts  of  pas- 
sion, beautiful  sentiments,  traits  of  nature,  and  touches 
of  that  happy  poetic  diction  which  gives  a  permanent 
value  and  interest  to  these  elder  masters  of  English 
poetry. 

Preceding  Shakespeare,  and  most  worthy  of  notice,  are 
Lj'ly,  Kyd,  Greene,  Lodge,  and  Marlowe ;  Marlowe  is  by 
far  the  greatest  of  Shakespeare's  precursors. 

He  is  supposed  to  have  been  born  about  the  year  1562, 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  117 

and  though  he  had  a  learned  education,  is  said  to  have 
been  the  son  of  a  shoemaker.  Marlowe  was  a  fiery,  im- 
aginative genius,  and  lived  as  wildly  as  he  wrote.  Con- 
demned by  the  serious,  and  stained  with  follies,  while  his 
genius  was  rapidlj^  maturing  and  developing  its  magnif- 
icent resources,  he  fell  a  victim  to  an  obscene  and  dis- 
graceful brawl.  A  lady  to  whom  he  was  attached,  favored 
another  lover  ;  finding  them  in  company  one  day,  the  poet 
,  in  a  fit  of  jealous  rage  attempted  to  stab  the  man  with 
his  dagger.  His  antagonist  seized  him  by  the  wrist,  and 
turning  the  dagger,  gave  him  a  mortal  wound.  He  died 
in  June,  1593.  Marlowe  excels  in  scenes  and  passages  of 
terrific  grandeur  and  thrilling  agony.  One  of  his  most 
characteristic  features  is  his  high-sounding  blank  verse 
which  Ben  Jonson  aptly  calls  "Marlowe's  mighty  line." 
The  tragedy  which  exhibits  this  writer's  widest  range  of 
dramatic  power  is  entitled  ''  The  Life  and  Death  of  Dr. 
Faustus."  Marlowe's  other  dramas  are,  *'  Tamburlaine 
the  Great,"  "  Lust's  Dominion,"  ''  The  Jew  of  Malta," 
"The  Massacre  at  Paris,"  and  "Edward  II."  Charles 
Lamb  aflSrms  that  the  death-scene  in  this  historical  drama 
(**  Edward  II.")  "  moves  pity  and  terror  beyond  any  scene 
ancient  or  modern."  This  is,  however,  exaggerated  praise  ; 
it  is  far  surpassed  by  some  of  Shakespeare's  scenes.  In 
addition  to  these  dramatic  productions,  Marlowe  assisted 
Nash  in  the  "  Tragedy  of  Dido,"  and  translated  part  of 
"  Hero  and  Leander  "  (afterward  completed  by  Chapman) 
and  the  elegies  of  Ovid.  The  latter  work  was,  for  its 
licentiousness,  burned  by  order  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbur3^  Marlowe's  "  Faustus,"  which  may  challenge 
comparison  with  Goethe's '' Faust,"  has  the  same  hero, 
who,  having  made  a  solemn  disposal  of  his  soul  to  Lucifer, 
on  condition  of  having  a  familiar  spirit  at  his  hand,  and 
unlimited  enjoyment  for  twenty-four  years,  calls  up  spirits 


118  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


ivels  U 


from  the  vast}'  deep,  visits  different  countries,  and  rev 
in  luxury  and  splendor.  At  length  the  time  expires ;  the 
bond  becomes  due ;  and  a  part}-  of  spirits  enter  amid 
thunder  and  lightning  to  claim  his  forfeited  life  and  per- 
son. When  he  stands  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  waiting  for 
the  fatal  moment,  imploring  yet  distrusting  repentance, 
a  scene  of  enchaining  interest  proclaims  the  full  triumph 
of  the  tragic  poet.  A  short  extract  from  this  powerful 
tragedy  will  but  faintly  convey  to  the  reader  the  grandeur 
of  Marlowe's  conception. 

Faustus  alone.  —  The  clock  strikes  eleven. 
Faust.  —  O  Faustus ! 
Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  be  damned  perpetually. 
Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease  and  midnight  never  come  ! 
Fair  Nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Perpetual  day  !  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day, 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul. 
O  lente,  lente  currite,  noctis  equi. 
The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike. 
The  Devil  wiU  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damned. 
Oh,  I  will  leap  to  heaven  :  who  pulls  me  down  ? 
See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament : 
One  drop  of  blood  will  save  me :  Oh,  my  Christ ! 
Rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ. 
Yet  will  I  caU  on  him.    Oh,  spare  me,  Lucifer ! 
Where  is  it  now  ?     'T  is  gone ! 
And  see  a  threatening  arm  and  angry  brow. 
Mountains  and  hills,  come,  come,  and  fall  on  me. 
And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  Heaven ! 
No  ?  then  I  will  headlong  run  into  the  earth. 
Gape,  earth !    Oh,  no,  it  will  not  harbor  me. 
You  stars  that  reigned  at  my  nativity, 
Whose  influence  have  allotted  death  and  hell, 
Now  draw  up  Faustus  like  a  foggy  mist 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  119 

Lito  the  entrails  of  yon  laboring  cloud ; 
That  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air, 
My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoky  mouths ; 
But  let  my  soul  mount  and  ascend  to  heaven  ! 

The  scene  from  which  this  is  taken  has  seldom  been 
surpassed  in  interest,  passion,  and  pathos  ;  and  though 
superstition  no  longer  gives  its  horrors  the  literal  force 
they  are  meant  to  conve3',  its  picture  of  the  worth  and 
indestructibility  of  the  soul,  as  shown  by  its  capacity  for 
suftering,  still  holds  color. 

Cotemporary  with  Shakespeare,  and  his  fellow-worker 
in  the  cultivation  of  England's  early  dramatic  literature,  is 
Ben  Jonson,  who  was  born  in  1574,  ten  years  after  the 
bard  of  Avon,  and  in  his  twentieth  year  appeared  as  a 
writer  for  the  stage. 

Jonson's  early  life  was  full  of  vicissitudes.  His  father, 
a  Scottish  clergyman,  died  before  the  poet's  birth.  His 
mother  gave  her  boy  a  bricklaj^er  for  his  stepfather,  and 
he  was  brought  home  from  Westminster  School  and  put  to 
the  same  uninteresting  employment.  Ben  escaped  from 
this  distasteful  occupation  by  enlisting  as  a  soldier.  He  is 
said  to  have  reverted  in  after-life  with  pride  to  his  conduct 
as  a  soldier,  —  having  killed  an  enemy  in  single  combat  in 
full  view  of  both  armies,  and  otherwise  distinguished  him- 
self for  youthful  bravery. 

Eeturning  to  England,  he  entered  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge,  where  his  stay  is  supposed  to  have  been 
shortened  on  account  of  straitened  circumstances. 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  we  find  him  married,  and  an 
actor  in  London. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  engaged  in  writing  for  the 
stage,  either  by  himself,  or  conjointly  with  others. 

As  an  actor  he  is  said  to  have  completel}^  failed.  In 
1596    Jonson   produced    his   pla}^,  "  Every  Man  in   his 


120       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Humor."  It  was  brought  out  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  and 
Shakespeare  was  one  of  the  performers  in  the  play. 
Queen  Elizabeth  patronized  the  new  poet,  and  ever  after- 
ward it  is  said  that  he  was  ' '  a  man  of  mark  and 
likeUhood." 

In  1619  Jonson  was  appointed  poet  laureate;  that  is, 
a  poet  attached  to  the  king's  household,  whose  business 
is  to  compose  annually  an  ode  for  the  king's  birthda}', 
and  for  the  New  Year.  This  title  was  first  given  in  the 
time  of  Edward  IV.  Jonson's  compensation  was  a  pension 
of  a  hundred  marks.  In  early  life  he  contracted  habits  of 
intemperance  which  never  left  him ;  he  is  said  to  have 
prided  himself  immoderately  on  his  classical  acquirements, 
and  to  have  slighted  and  contemned  his  less  literary  asso- 
ciates. Capable  of  a  generous  warmth  of  friendship,  and 
just  in  his  discrimination  of  genius  and  character,  with  a 
love  of  convivialit}^  and  high  colloquial  powers,  Jonson 
became  the  centre  of  that  band  of  wits  called  the  Mermaid 
Club,  founded  b}'  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  where  Shakespeare, 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Herrick  and  other  poets  are  said 
to  have  ' '  exercised  themselves  with  wit  combats  more 
bright  and  genial  than  their  wine." 

Jonson  died  in  1637,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  A  square  stone,  marking  the  spot,  was  long  after- 
ward shown,  inscribed  only  with  the  words,  "O  rare  Ben 
Jonson !  "  His  works,  all  together,  consist  of  about  fifty 
dramatic  pieces.  By  far  the  greater  part  of  them  are 
masques  and  interludes.  His  principal  comedies  are 
*' Every  Man  in  his  Humor,"  "Volpone,"  "The  Silent 
Woman,"  and  **  The  Alchemist."  The  strong  delineation 
of  character  is  the  most  striking  feature  in  them. 

His  comic  portraits  are  often  coarse  and  repulsive,  and  so 
exaggerated  as  to  appear  like  caricatures  or  libels  on  hu- 
manity ;  and  it  has  been  observed  that  "  his  humor  will  be 


OLD  ENGLISH  DKAMA.  121 

most  relished  by  those  who  are  most  amused  by  dancing 
bears,  and  shows  of  that  class." 

His  Roman  tragedies  are  considered  literal  impersona- 
tions of  classic  antiquit}'.  Craik  observes  that  "  the  effect 
produced  b}'  the  most  arresting  passages  in  them  is  the 
most  undramatic  that  can  be ;  namely,  a  greater  sym- 
pathy with  the  performance  as  a  work  of  art  than  anything 
else." 

Both  comedies  and  tragedies  exhibit  an  acute  and  vigor- 
ous intellect,  the  labor  of  an  artist,  possessing  rich 
resources,  great  knowledge  of  life  down  to  its  lowest 
descents,  coarse  wit,  lofty  declamation,  and  a  power  of 
dramatizing  his  knowledge  and  observation  with  singular 
skill  and  effect.  He  was  the  founder  of  a  style  of  regular 
English  comedy,  massive,  well  compacted,  and  fitted  to 
endure,  yet  not  ver}'  attractive  in  its  materials. 

'*  Jonson,"  it  has  been  remarked,  "presents  us  with 
two  natures,  — one  hard,  rugged,  gross,  and  sarcastic,  the 
other,  airy,  fanciful,  and  graceful  as  if  its  possessor  had 
never  combated  with  the  world  and  its  bad  passions,  but 
nursed  his  understanding  and  his  fancy  in  poetical  seclu- 
sion and  contemplation."  In  his  lyrics  he  turns  to  us  this 
finer  side  of  his  nature,  as  in  the  well-known  song  to 
Celia,  —  "Drink  to  me  onl}^  with  thine  e3'es."  Jonson's 
lines  on  the  portrait  of  Shakespeare,  opposite  the  frontis- 
piece to  the  first  edition  of  his  works,  1623,  are  happily 
conceived,  and  are  interesting  as  attesting  the  fidelitj^  of 
the  first  engraved  likeness  of  the  poet. 

"  This  figure  that  thou  here  seest  put. 
It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut, 
Wherein  the  graver  had  a  strife 
With  nature,  to  outdo  the  life. 
O  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit 
As  well  in  brass  as  he  hath  hit 


122       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

His  face,  the  print  would  then  surpass 
All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass  ! 
But  since  he  cannot,  reader,  look 
Not  on  his  picture,  but  his  book." 

In  Jonson's  best  vein  are  these  lines  on  the  '*  True  worth 
of  Life  "  :  — 

"  It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk  doth  make  man  better  be, 
Or  standing  long,  an  oak,  three  hundred  yeax 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  withered,  sere. 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night ; 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light ! 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be.** 

To  this  period  belongs  the  drama  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  of  whom  it  has  been  said  that  if  they  were  not 
great  dramatists,  they  would  still  be  great  poets. 

The  two  names  must  be  regarded  as  indicating  one 
poet  rather  than  two,  since  it  is  impossible  to  make  out 
their  respective  shares  in  the  plays  published  in  their 
conjoint  names. 

John  Fletcher  was  born  in  1576,  and  was  ten  years  older 
than  his  friend  Francis  Beaumont  They  lived  together 
ten  years,  writing  in  union  a  series  of  dramas,  passionate, 
romantic,  and  comic,  blending  thus  their  genius  and  fame. 

The  drama  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  though  not  in  so 
high  a  style  as  Shakespeare's,  is  poetical  and  imaginative. 
They  are  fertile  in  the  invention  of  plot  and  incident ;  and 
for  keeping  the  attention  of  an  audience  awake,  and  their 
expectation  suspended  throughout  the  whole  course  of  the 
action,  they  approach  Shakespeare  (who,  however,  had 
higher  ends  and  purposes) ;  for  this  reason,  in  the  great  daj^s 
of  the  stage,  and  so  long  as  the  public  manners  tolerated 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  123 

their  license  and  grossness,  their  plays  were  much  greater 
favorites  in  the  theatres  than  his.  Dryden  tells  us  that 
two  of  theirs  were  acted  in  his  time  for  one  of  Shake- 
speare. The  lyrical  pieces  scattered  throughout  their 
plays  are  among  the  sweetest  in  the  language  ;  and  after 
Shakespeare,  they  hdve  left  us  the  richest  drama  we  have. 
This  "  To  Sleep,"  from  ''  Valentinian,"  is  one  of  the  most 
elevated  specimens  of  their  verse,  and  less  quoted  than 
their  lyrics. 

**  Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince  :  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers  ;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers  ;  easy,  light 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  Night, 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses,  sing  his  pain 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind,  or  silver  rain. 
Into  this  prince,  gently,  oh,  gently  slide. 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride ! " 

The  most  noted  of  Shakespeare's  successors  are  Chap- 
man, Dekker,  "Webster,  Middleton,  Marston,  Taylor, 
Rowley,  Massinger,  Ford,  Heywood,  and  Shirley.  Among 
these,  Massinger  is  pre-eminent  as  a  tragic  poet.  He  was 
born  about  the  year  1584.  His  life  was  spent  in  ob- 
scurity and  poverty  ;  and  one  morning  in  March,  1640,  he 
was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  dying  almost  unknown,  and 
buried  with  no  other  inscription  than  the  melancholy  note 
in  the  parish  register :  "  Philip  Massinger,  a  stranger." 

He  wrote  a  great  number  of  pieces,  of  which  eighteen 
have  been  preserved.  *'The  Virgin  Mart3T,"  '*  The 
Bondman,"  "The  Fatal  Dowry,"  "The  City  Madam," 
and  "The  New  Way  to  pay  Old  Debts,"  are  his  best- 
known  productions.  The  last-mentioned  play  has  kept 
possession  of  the  stage  chiefly  on  account  of  the  eflfective 


124  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


and  original  character  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  —  a  char- 
acter which  the  genius  of  Kean  has  made  immortal. 

Massinger  has  greater  power  as  a  tragic  poet  than  any 
writer  of  the  time  of  James.  His  tragedies  have  a  calm, 
proud  seriousness  that  impresses  the  imagination.  His 
genius  was  more  eloquent  and  descriptive  than  impas- 
sioned or  inventive.  His  pictures,  rather  than  his  senti- 
ments, touch  the  heart.  His  versification  was  smooth 
and  mellifluous.  In  his  comed}'  he  has  the  same  rugged 
strength  that  characterizes  Ben  Jonson.  Genuine  humor 
and  sprightliness  he  had  none ;  and  his  dialogue,  like 
Jonson's,  is  often  coarse  and  indecent.  His  characters 
are  often  too  depraved  to  be  real.  He  is  not  a  quotable 
dramatist,  having  less  sentiment  than  portrayal  of  char- 
acter to  commend  him.  Here  is  a  short  but  striking 
passage  from  *'The  New  Way  to  pay  Old  Debts":  — 

"  Some  undone  widow  sits  upon  mine  arm, 
And  takes  away  the  use  of  it ;  and  my  sword, 
Glued  to  my  scabbard  with  wronged  orphan's  tears. 
Will  not  be  drawn." 

Ford,  Massinger's  cotemporar}%  was  born  1586,  and 
died  1639.  He  is  characterized  by  a  tone  of  pensive  ten- 
derness, and  a  peculiarly  soft  and  musical  style  of  blank 
verse.  His  morbid,  diseased  imagination  led  him  to  de- 
vote some  of  his  best  effort  to  the  description  of  incestu- 
ous passion.  The  scenes  in  his  "  Brother  and  Sister," 
describing  the  criminal  loves  of  Arabella  and  Giovanni, 
contain  his  finest  poetry  and  expression.  Charles  Lamb 
ranks  Ford  with  the  first  order  of  poets.  More  impartial 
critics  have  admitted  his  sway  over  the  tender  passions 
and  the  occasional  beaut}-  of  his  language,  but  have  found 
him  wanting  in  the  elevation  of  great  genius.  His  co- 
temporary,  Thomas  Hey  wood,  the  date  of  whose  birth  is 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  125 

unknown,  but  who  wrote  for  the  stage  as  late  as  1640, 
and  ''  had  an  entire  hand,"  as  he  tells  us,  ''  or  at  least  a 
main  finger,"  in  two  hundred  and  twenty  plaj^s,  besides 
attending  to  his  business  as  an  actor,  as  a  dramatist 
has  poetical  fancy  and  an  abundance  of  classic  imagery ; 
but  as  his  business  was  to  cater  to  the  play-goer's  crav- 
ing for  novelty,  scenes  of  low  buffoonerj",  "  merry  acci- 
dents, intermixed  with  apt  and  witty  jests,"  deform  his 
pieces. 

Of  his  twenty-three  plays  that  have  come  down  to  us, 
the  best  are,  "A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness,"  "A 
Challenge  for  Beauty,"  "The  English  Traveller,"  "The 
Royal  King  and  Loyal  Subject,"  "  The  Lancashire 
Witches,"  "The  Rape  of  Lucrece,"  and  "Love's  Mis- 
tress." It  has  been  remarked  that  "there  is  a  natural 
repose  in  Heywood's  scenes  which  is  in  pleasant  contrast 
with  the  excitement  that  prevails  in  those  of  most  of  his 
cotemporaries."  The  songs  scattered  through  his  now 
neglected  plays  are  often  easy  and  flowing.  He  informs 
us  in  one  of  his  Prologues  that  — 

"  To  give  content  to  this  most  curious  age, 
The  gods  themselves  we  've  brought  down  to  the  stage, 
And  figured  them  in  planets ;  made  even  hell 
Deliver  up  the  Furies,  bj  no  spell 
Saving  the  Muse's  rapture.     Further  we 
Have  trafficked  by  their  help ;  no  history 
We  have  left  unrifled ;  our  pens  have  been  dipped 
As  well  in  opening  each  hid  manuscript 
As  tracks  more  vulgar,  whether  read  or  sung 
In  our  domestic  or  more  foreign  tongue. 
Of  fairies,  elves,  nymphs  of  the  sea  and  land, 
The  lawns,  the  groves,  no  number  can  be  scanned 
Which  we  have  not  given  feet  to." 

Heywood  impresses  one  rather  as  a  playwright  than  a 
poet ;  but  when  we  think  of  his  "  finger  in  the  pie "  of 


126       ENGLISH  POETEY  AND  POETS. 

two  hundred  and  twenty  plays,  and  the  *'  several  prose 
works"  that  he  wrote,  we  must  at  least  praise  his 
industry. 

John  Marston,  writing  from  1600  to  1634,  some  of  whose 
miscellaneous  poetry  was  ordered  to  be  burned  for  its  licen- 
tiousness, is  the  author  of  "Malcontent,"  a  comedy,  "An- 
tonio and  Mellida,"  a  tragedy,  "  The  Insatiate  Countess,'* 
*'  What  you  Will,"  and  other  plays.  Marston  was  a 
rough  and  vigorous  writer.  "  His  forte,"  sa3's  Hazlitt, 
*'  was  not  sympath}^  either  with  the  stronger  or  softer 
emotions,  but  an  impatient  scorn  and  bitter  indignation 
against  the  vices  and  follies  of  men,  which  vented  itself 
either  in  comic  iron}^  or  loftj-  invective."  This  humor- 
ous sketch  of  a  scholar  and  his  dog  is  not  unworthy  of 
Shakespeare ;  — 

"  I  was  a  scholar ;  seven  useful  springs 
Did  I  deflower  in  quotations 
Of  crossed  opinions  'bout  the  soul  of  man. 
The  more  I  learnt,  the  more  I  learnt  to  doubt. 
Delight,  my  spaniel,  slept,  whilst  I  baused  leaves, 
Tossed  o'er  the  dunces,  pored  on  the  old  print 
Of  titled  words ;  and  still  my  spaniel  slept, 
Whilst  I  wasted  lamp-oil,  baited  my  flesh. 
Shrunk  up  my  veins  ;  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
And  still  I  held  converse  with  Zabarell, 
Aquinas,  Scotus,  and  the  musty  saw 
Of  Antick  Donate ;  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Still  on  went  I ;  first,  an  sit  anima ; 
Then,  an  it  were  mortal.     O  hold,  hold ;  at  that 
They  're  at  brain  buffets,  fell  by  the  ears  amain 
Pell-mell  together ;  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Then,  whether  't  were  corporeal,  local,  fixt. 
Ex  traduce,  but  whether  't  had  free  will 
Or  no,  hot  philosophers 
Stood  banding  factions,  all  so  strongly  propt, 
I  staggered,  knew  not  which  was  firmer  part, 
But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observed,  and  pried, 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  127 

Stufft  noting  books ;  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
At  length  he  waked  and  yawn'd  ;  and  by  yon  sky, 
For  aught  I  know,  he  knew  as  much  as  I." 

Thomas  Middleton  was  a  popular  dramatic  writer,  and 
the  author  of  about  twenty  plays.  The  date  of  his  birth 
is  not  given.  He  was  writing  for  the  stage  as  late  as 
1624.  He  died  in  1627.  A  conjecture  that  an  old  ne- 
glected drama  of  his,  entitled  ^'  The  Witch,"  supplied  the 
witchcraft  scenery,  and  part  of  the  lyrical  incantations  of 
*'  Macbeth,"  has  kept  alive  the  name  of  this  poet.  It  is 
now,  however,  thought  more  probable  that  the  inferior 
author  is  the  borrower,  and  it  has  been  aptly  said  that 
''the  dim,  mysterious,  unearthly  beings  that  accost  Mac- 
beth on  the  blasted  heath,  only  Shakespeare  could  have 
evoked."  Middleton's  witches,  like  Shakespeare's,  dance 
about  their  caldron  ;  and  their  charm-song  is  worded  not 
unlike  his,  but  it  falls  flat  in  the  singing.  It  is  not  in  the 
least  blood-curdling,  but  rather  suggests  ''Mother  Goose." 
The  witches'  moonlight  flight  is  better  done.  In  parts  it 
approaches  Shakespeare,  but  never  reaches  him.  Middle- 
ton's  witches  have  no  originalit3\  They  are  of  the  old 
common-place  type,  —  a  mixture  of  the  ludicrous  and 
uncanny.  They  are  funny,  but  not  awful,  —  scarcely 
horrible. 

Middleton  would  seem  to  have  been  well  known  as  a 
dramatic  writer,  for  when  in  1617  the  Cockpit  Theatre 
was  demolished,  an  old  ballad  describing  the  circum- 
stance states, — 

"  Books  old  and  young  on  heap  they  flnng, 
And  burnt  them  in  the  blazes,  — 
Tom  Dekker,  Heywood,  Middleton, 
And  other  wand'ring  crazys." 

John  Webster,  whom  Hazlitt  has  called  "  the  noble- 
minded,"  was  united  with  Dekker  in  the  conjunct  author- 


128  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


1 


ship  then  so  common.  The  two  dramatists  are  placed  be- 
tween 1601  and  1641.  His  plays  abound  in  passages  of 
intense  feeling ;  his  subjects  are  managed  with  delicacj" ; 
and  his  moral  tone  is  higher  than  is  to  be  found  in  most 
of  his  cotemporaries,  though  he  could  not  resist  the  pre- 
vailing appetite  for  "  supernumerary  horrors,"  in  which  his 
tragedies  abound.  His  "  White  Devil,"  and  "  Duchess  of 
Malfy "  are  almost  equally  admired  by  critics.  The  last 
scenes  in  the  latter  pla}^  are  finely  conceived,  and  in  a 
spirit  which  students  of  our  elder  dramatic  literature  have 
admired  as  belonging  peculiarly  to  Webster. 

The  Duchess  is  in  prison ;  Bosola,  her  captor,  enters 
disguised  as  a  bellman,  —  usuall}-  sent  to  condemned  per- 
sons the  night  before  the}^  suffer.  In  their  conversation 
occurs  this  fine  and  often-quoted  passage,  — 

"  Glories,  like  glow-worms,  afar  off  shine  bright ; 
But  looked  to  near,  have  neither  heat  nor  light." 

After  a  coffin,  cords,  and  a  bell  have  been  produced,  Bos- 
ola sings  this  dirge  :  — 

"  Hark !  now  everything  is  still ; 
This  screech-owl  and  the  whistler  shrill 
Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 
And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud. 
Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent ; 
Your  length  in  clay 's  now  competent. 
A  long  war  disturbed  your  mind ; 
Here  your  perfect  peace  is  signed. 
Of  what  is 't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  1 
Sin  their  conception ;  their  birth  weeping  • 
Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error ; 
Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 
Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 
Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet ; 
And  —  the  foul  fiend  more  to  check  — 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  129 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck. 

'T  is  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day ; 

End  your  groan,  and  come  away." 

The  Duchess  now  addresses  her  maid,  Cariola,  — 

Farewell,  Cariola. 
I  pray  thee  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 
Some  syrup  for  his  cold ;  And  let  the  girl 
Say  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep.  —  Now  what  you  please. 
What  death  ? 

Bosola.  —  Strangling.    Here  are  your  executioners. 

Duch.    I  forgive  them. 
The  apoplexy,  catarrh,  or  cough  o'  the  lungs 
Would  do  as  much  as  they  do. 

Bos.    Doth  not  death  fright  you  1 

Duch.    Who  would  be  afraid  on  't, 
Knowing  to  meet  such  excellent  company 
In  th'  other  world? 

Bos.    Yet  methinks  the  manner  of  your  death  should  much  aflSict 
you. 

This  cord  should  terrify  you. 

Duch.    Not  a  whit. 
What  would  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat  cut 
With  diamonds,  or  to  be  smothered 
With  cassia,  or  to  be  shot  to  death  with  pearls  1 
I  know  death  hath  ten  thousand  several  doors 
For  men  to  take  their  exits ;  and  't  is  found 
They  go  on  such  strange  geometrical  hinges 
You  may  open  them  both  ways.  .  .  . 
.  .  .  Tell  my  brothers 
That  I  perceive  death  —  now  I  am  well  awake  — 
Best  gift  is  they  can  give  or  I  can  take. 
I  would  fain  put  off  my  last  woman's  fault : 
I  'd  not  be  tedious  to  you. 
Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 
Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. 
Yet  stay ;  heaven's  gates  are  not  so  highly  arched 
As  princes*  palaces ;  they  that  enter  there 
Must  go  upon  their  knees.     Come,  violent  death, 

9 


130       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Serve  for  mandragora  to  make  me  sleep. 
Go  tell  my  brothers,  when  I  am  laid  out, 
They  then  may  feed  in  quiet.  {They  strangle  her,  kneeling. 

Her  brother,  Ferdinand,  to  whom  she  has  given  mortal 
offence  by  indulging  in  a  generous  but  infatuated  passion 
for  her  steward,  and  at  whose  instance  she  is  strangled, 
now  enters. 

Ferd.    Is  she  dead? 

Bos.    She  is  what  you  would  have  her. 
Fix  your  eye  here. 

Ferd.     Constantly. 

Bos.      Do  you  not  weep  ? 
Other  sins  only  speak  ;  murder  shrieks  out. 
The  element  of  water  moistens  the  earth. 
But  blood  flies  upwards,  and  bedews  the  heavens. 

Ferd.     Cover  her  face  :  mine  eyes  dazzle :  she  died  young. 

Bos.    I  think  not  so ;  her  infelicity 
Seemed  to  have  years  too  many. 

Ferd.    She  and  I  were  twins : 
And  should  I  die  this  instant,  I  had  lived 
Her  time  to  a  minute. 

James  Shirley,  born  in  1594,  and  dj'ing  in  1666,  was  a 
voluminous  writer,  thirty-nine  plays  proceeding  from  his 
prolific  pen.  As  a  dramatist,  he  lacks  originality,  force, 
and  pathos ;  but  his  mind  was  poetical,  and  his  style  and 
language  polished  and  refined.  He  is  much  commended 
for  '*  the  airy  touches  of  his  expression,  tlie  dehcacy  of 
his  sentiments,  and  the  beauty  of  his  similes."  He  is  best 
kept  in  repute  by  that  fine  production,  ''Death's  Final 
Conquest,"  which  occurs  in  his  pla}^  entitled  *'  The  Con- 
tention of  Ajax  and  Ulysses."  These  verses  were  greatly 
admired  by  Charles  II. :  — 

**  The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings. 


OLD  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  131 

Sceptre  and  crown 

Must  tumble  down 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

"  Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield, 
They  tame  but  one  another  stilL 
Early  or  late, 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

**  The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow. 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now. 
See  where  the  victim  bleeds. 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust." 

Shirley  is  last  on  the  list  of  this  race  of  dramatists. 
Taking  them  all  in  all  (without  even  including  Shake- 
speare), 

"  We  ne'er  shall  see  their  like  again." 

Had  Shakespeare  never  existed  (imagination  shudders  at 
such  a  possibility)  we  might  still  exhibit  the  roll  of  our 
elder  dramatists  with  some  pride. 

With  Shirley  the  production  of  the  Elizabethan  drama 
and  the  popularity  of  the  stage  came  to  an  end. 

By  an  act  of  the  Long  Parliament,  passed  on  the  2d  of 
September,  1642,  theatrical  entertainments  were  perma- 
nently suppressed. 

Theatres  were  demolished  by  the  city  authorities,  and 
convicted  pla3^ers  were  openly  whipped ;  yet  these  severe 


132  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


the  II 


measures  did  not  entirely  suppress  stage  plaj^s.  In 
country  strolling  players  still  continued  to  set  the  law  at  de- 
fiance, and  in  London  the  players  still  kept  together,  and  by 
connivance  of  the  commanding  official  at  Whitehall  some- 
times represented  privately  a  few  plays  at  a  short  distance 
from  town.  In  the  mean  time,  the  players,  thus  cut  ofl"  from 
their  regular  gains,  resorted  to  the  sale  of  their  dramatic 
productions  to  the  booksellers,  which  in  the  craving  of  the 
public  for  their  customary  enjoyment  were  eagerly  sought 
for.  Heretofore  the  most  favorite  acting  plays  had  been 
carefully  withheld  from  the  press  by  the  theatrical  com- 
panies whose  property  they  were ;  and  the  only  way  in 
which  a  reading  of  them  could  be  obtained  was  by  pay- 
ing a  considerable  sum  for  the  loan  of  the  manuscript  or  a 
transcript  of  it. 

In  a  preface  to  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  pub- 
lished in  1647,  the  reader  is  thus  exhorted :  "Congratulate 
thy  own  happiness  that  in  the  silence  of  the  stage  thou 
hast  a  liberty  to  read  these  inimitable  pla3's,  to  dwell  and 
converse  in  these  immortal  groves  which  were  only  showed 
to  our  fathers  as  in  a  conjuriug-glass,  as  suddenly  removed 
as  represented." 


I 


SHAKESPEARE.  133 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

DOUBT  and  fable,  it  has  been  well  observed,  sur- 
round the  few  incidents  in  Shakespeare's  life ; 
and  in  our  loving  reverence  for  this  great  soul  we  are  not 
unwilling  that  it  should  be  so,  for  as  Emerson  happily 
expresses  it,  "  we  are  not  the  friends  of  his  buttons,  but 
of  his  thought,  and  are  willing  that  he  should  be  a  stranger 
in  a  thousand  particulars  that  he  ma}^  come  nearer  in  the 
holiest  ground,  poetic,  pure,  and  universal." 

We  know  that  he  was  born  at  Stratford-on-Avon  in 
April,  1564,  and  tradition  dates  his  birth  on  the  23d  of 
the  month,  the  anniversary  of  St.  George,  the  tutelar  saint 
of  England.  His  father,  John  Shakespeare,  was  a  wool- 
comber,  and  his  mother,  Mary  Arden,  a  rustic  heiress. 
Though  John  Shakespeare  by  this  marriage  must  have 
elevated  his  social  position,  as  he  afterward  rose  to  be 
high  bailiff  of  Stratford,  he  is  found  in  1578  mortgaging 
his  wife's  inheritance,  and  from  entries  in  the  town  books 
is  supposed  to  have  fallen  into  comparative  poverty. 

William,  being  the  eldest  of  six  surviving  children,  was 
after  some  education  at  the  grammar  school  brought  home 
to  assist  at  his  father's  business.  How  much  education 
Shakespeare  received  at  this  school  is  not  known.  His 
friend,  Ben  Jonson,  allows  him  "  little  Latin  and  less 
Greek."  Yet  it  must  be  remembered  that  with  more  than 
ordinary  attainments  Shakespeare  would  have  been  un- 


134       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


1 

eru-  II 


learned  in  the  estimation  of  Jonson,  — a  man  of  vast 
dition  and  proportionate  self-esteem.  The  extent  of  the 
literar}"  acquirements  of  the  bard  of  Avon  has  been  thus 
fairly  estimated  :  "  He  had  what  would  now  be  considered 
a  reasonable  proportion  of  Latin.  He  was  not  wholly 
ignorant  of  Greek.  He  had  a  knowledge  of  the  French, 
so  as  to  read  it  with  ease,  and  not  less  of  the  Italian. 
He  had  no  ordinary  facility  in  the  classics,  and  had  deeply 
imbibed  the  Scriptures." 

His  father,  unable  to  subsist  by  his  original  trade,  is  said 
at  one  time  to  have  had  recourse  to  the  inferior  occupation 
of  a  butcher.  Aubrey  suggests  that  Shakespeare  then  be- 
gan to  exhibit  his  dramatic  propensities,  and  "when  he 
killed  a  calf  would  do  it  in  a  high  st^^le  and  make  a  speech." 
With  the  author  of  "  Macbeth  "  for  its  executioner,  an  ap- 
preciative calf  might  well  have  been  "half  in  love  with 
easeful  death." 

Shakespeare  married  at  the  immature  age  of  eighteen 
Anne  Hathawa}',  the  daughter  of  a  substantial  yeoman  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Stratford,  eight  years  older  than  him- 
self. It  is  conjectured  that  the  poet  lived  to  repent  the 
indulgence  of  a  boyish  fanc}^  an  affection  too  much  mis- 
grafted  in  respect  of  years  ;  and  this  familiar  passage  in 
"Twelfth  Night"  is  thought  to  apply  to  himself. 

"  Let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself ;  so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves. 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn, 
Than  women's  are.  .  .  . 
Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself. 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent ; 
For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower. 
Being  once  displayed,  doth  fall  that  very  hour." 


I 


SHAIiESPEARE.  135 

All  this,  however,  is  mere  conjecture,  as  the  only  writings 
Shakespeare  has  left  through  which  we  can  trace  anything 
of  his  personal  feelings  and  affections,  are  his  sonnets  ;  and 
out  of  the  hundred  and  fifty-four,  —  the  number  he  has 
written,  —  only  twenty-eight  can  be  called  love-sonnets. 
All  the  others  are  inscribed  to  some  beloved  friend  of  his 
own  sex,  whom  the  poet  addresses  in  a  strain  of  affection 
and  idolatry,  remarkable  even  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  for 
its  enthusiasm  and  extravagance. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  these  twentj^-eight  love-sonnets 
maj-  after  all  have  been  written  impersonally,  and  are  merely 
dramatic  in  expression  ;  but  the  general  supposition  is  that 
they  were  inspired  by  the  real  object  of  a  real  affection, 
however  dislo3'al,  blind,  and  misplaced.  Mrs.  Jameson  in- 
fers from  them  that  the  beloved  lady  was  "  dark-haired  and 
dark-eyed,"  and  that  she  belonged  to  ^^that  class  of  women 
who  do  not  always,  in  losing  all  right  to  our  respect,  lose 
also  their  claim  upon  the  admiration  of  the  other  sex."  Tn 
our  deep  and  tender  veneration  for  Shakespeare,  we  cannot 
conceive  him  to  have  been  permanently  enslaved  by  mere 
sensuous  beaut}'  unallied  to  purity'  and  worth.  Let  us  rather 
trust  that,  soon  disenchanted  and  disenthralled,  he  peni- 
tently turned  from  his  unlawful  love  to  his  sacred  conjugal 
allegiance,  and  lived  ever  after  in  tender  friendship  with 
middle-aged  Anne  Hathaway  Shakespeare,  who  duly  made 
his  posset,  darned  his  hose,  and  knitted  up  for  him  the 
ever-ravelling  sleeve  of  life  as  only  a  woman  can ;  while 
the  poet's  foregone  ecstasy  of  love,  transmuted  at  last  into 
a  divine  aspiration,  a  blameless  craving  for  ideal  beauty 
and  excellence,  expressed  itself  in  the  white  chastity  of 
Imogen,  the  winsome  grace  of  Rosalind,  the  tenderness  of 
Juliet,  the  cloistered  innocence  of  Miranda,  the  touching 
sweetness  of  Ophelia,  the  modest}-  of  Viola,  the  gentle 
dignity  of  Catherine,  the  pious  sincerity  of  Cordelia,  the 


136       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

holy  constancy  of  Hermione,  and  the  inimitable  grace  and 
beauty  of  the  divine  Desdemona. 

"  A  maiden  never  bold ; 
Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet  that  her  motion 
Blush'd  at  herself." 

It  is  supposed  that  early  in  life  Shakespeare  may  have 
unsuccessfully  applied  himself  to  an  occupation  for  which 
youth  and  natural  gayety  unfitted  him,  —  tuition.  Tradi- 
tion also  asserts  that  about  this  time  he  fell  into  ill  com- 
pany, and  was  led  into  excesses.  Doubtless  "  Wild  Will " 
had  many  a  lark  with  the  Stratford  lads,  who,  as  the  story 
goes,  were  now  and  then  o'er  free  with  grim  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's  deer  and  conies ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
in  these  ruder  days  when  "  the  spirit  of  Robin  Hood  was 
yet  abroad,"  deer-stealing  was  looked  upon  rather  as  a 
liazardous  exploit  than  as  a  crime ;  and  then,  too,  — 

**  Sir  Thomas  was  too  covetous 
To  covet  so  much  deer ! " 

In  his  wild  youth,  Shakespeare  is  said  to  have  been  o'er 
liberal  in  his  potations,  and  to  have  '*  addicted  himself  to 
ale  as  lustil}'  as  Falstaff  to  his  sack."  It  is  not  pleasant 
to  imagine  the  author  of  "  Hamlet "  "half-seas  over ;  "  but 
to  err  is  human,  and  we  can  well  believe  what  has  been 
affirmed  of  the  gentle  Shakespeare,  —  ''  though  the  ebul- 
litions of  high  spirits  might  mislead  him,  the  principles 
and  affections  never  swerved  from  what  was  right."  When 
little  more  than  twenty,  Shakespeare  had  a  wife  and  two 
children  to  maintain.  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  a  stiff  Puritan, 
and  rigid  upholder  of  the  game  laws,  vengefully  attacked 
with  the  penalties  of  the  law  the  3'outh  who  had  no  doubt 
alread}'  made  the  butt  of  his  unripe  wit  the  man  who  3'et 
survives  in  the  character  of  Justice  Shallow  as  the  laugh- 


SHAKESPEARE.  137 

ing-stock  of  posterity.  By  his  persecutions  he  at  last  drove 
Shakespeare  to  the  metropolis,  where  Destiny-,  who  shapes 
our  rough-hewn  ends,  had  in  store  for  him  not  onl^^  an 
asylum,  but  friends,  wealth,  and  fame. 

About  the  year  1587,  in  the  twentj-- third  year  of  his 
age,  the  poet  is  supposed  to  have  arrived  in  London.  His 
natural  taste  for  theatricals  led  him  at  once  to  the  theatre. 
Some  of  his  townsmen  were  distinguished  performers  on 
the  stage,  and  he  seems  easily  to  have  secured  a  some- 
what menial  occupation  there.  One  tradition  places  him 
as  call-bo}^  or  prompter's  attendant,  whose  employment 
it  is  to  give  the  performers  notice  to  be  ready  to  enter 
whenever  they  are  required  on  the  stage.  Another  is  that 
Shakespeare's  first  expedient  was  to  wait  at  the  door  of 
the  playhouse  and  hold  the  horses  of  those  who  rode  to  the 
theatre  and  had  no  servants  to  take  charge  of  them  during 
the  performance. 

It  is  said  that  "  he  became  so  conspicuous  in  this  oflSce 
for  his  care  and  readiness  that  in  a  short  time  every  man 
as  he  alighted  called  for  Will  Shakespeare,  and  scarcely 
any  other  waiter  was  trusted  with  a  horse  while  Will  could 
be  had."  This  was  the  dawn  of  better  fortune.  Shake- 
speare, finding  more  horses  put  into  his  hands  than  he 
could  hold,  hired  boys  to  wait  under  his  inspection, 
who  when  Will  Shakespeare  was  summoned  were  imme- 
diately to  present  themselves :  I  am  Shakespeare's  hoy^ 
sir.  And  in  time,  when  Shakespeare  found  higher  and 
more  fitting  emploj^ment,  the  waiters  who  held  the  horses, 
so  long  as  the  practice  of  riding  to  the  playhouse  con- 
tinued, retained  the  appellation  of  ''  Shakespeare's  boys." 
This  stor}^  which  Dr.  Johnson  credits,  if  it  be  true,  only 
increases  our  respect  for  Shakespeare,  who,  liberally  en- 
dowed by  nature,  might  well  spare  a  modicum  of  genius 
for  the  by-pla^^  of  life,  and  still  have  more  than  enough  for 


138       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

the  grand  action.  The  very  fact  of  his  success  in  horse- 
holding  shows  "  the  mj'riad-minded  man."  Shakespeare's 
talents  were  not  long  buried  in  obscurity.  From  this  infe- 
rior station  he  soon  rose  to  the  highest  occupation  in  the 
theatre,  and  by  the  power  of  his  genius  raised  the  national 
dramatic  literature  from  its  infancy  to  the  highest  state  of 
perfection  which  it  is  perhaps  capable  of  reaching. 

Very  early  in  his  dramatic  career  he  is  said  to  have 
attained  to  a  principal  share  in  the  direction  and  emolu- 
ments of  the  theatres  to  which  he  was  attached.  His 
name  stands  second  in  the  list  of  proprietors  of  the  Globe 
and  Blackfriars  in  the  license  granted  to  them  by  James  I. 
in  1603  ;  and  his  industry  in  supporting  these  establish- 
ments is  said  to  have  been  indefatigable.  ^'  Titus  Andron- 
icus  "  —  the  earliest  dramatic  effort  of  Shakespeare's  pen, 
according  to  its  date  —  must  have  been  produced  imme- 
diately after  his  arrival  in  London.  The  accumulated 
horrors  of  its  plot,  and  the  dissimilarity  of  its  style  from 
the  other  efforts  of  Shakespeare's  genius,  have  caused  the 
critics  to  doubt  that  this  play  is  reallj'  his  own.  It  was  a 
great  favorite  at  its  first  performance  ;  and  though  it  is  a 
heavj^  and  monotonous  pla}",  full  of  barbarities  that  shock 
our  more  refined  taste,  and  bears  no  resemblance  to  his 
divine  after-thoughts,  —  "  Othello,"  "  Hamlet,"  "  Macbeth," 
and  "Lear," — it  must  ever  excite  our  interest  as  the  tragedy 
on  which  the  immortal  master  *'  tried  his  'prentice  han'." 

The  fortunes  of  the  poet  rose  ;  the  smiles  of  royalty  at 
length  shone  upon  him.  Queen  Elizabeth  rewarded  him 
with  her  favor ;  and  it  is  related  that  she  was  so  delighted 
with  the  character  of  FalstaflT  that  she  desired  the  poet 
to  continue  it  in  another  play  and  exhibit  him  in  love. 
To  this  command  we  owe  the  ''  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor." 
It  is  further  related  that  so  eager  was  the  queen  to  see  it 
acted  that  she  commanded  him  to  finish  it  in  fourteen  daj's, 


SHAKESPEARE.  139 

and  -was  "  well  pleased  with  the  performance."  With  her 
successor,  James  L,  Shakespeare  was  a  favorite.  The 
''Tempest"  was  written  for  the  festivities  that  attended 
the  marriage  of  his  daughter,  the  Princess  Elizabeth, 
Miranda,  the  Island  Princess,  being  designed  as  a  poetic 
representative  of  the  high-born  bride  ;  and  in  the  roj'ai 
and  learned  Prospero  a  complimentar}^  allusion  to  the 
literary  character  and  learned  studies  of  her  royal  father 
has  been  traced. 

Shakespeare,  like  his  friend  Ben  Jonson,  was  an  actor 
as  well  as  an  author.  There  are  some  doubts  as  to  his 
merits  as  a  performer.  He  is  thought  to  have  been  but 
indifferently  skilled  in  the  inferior  half  of  his  double  vo- 
cation, as  it  is  said  he  never  attempted  a  part  superior 
to  the  ghost  in  "Hamlet."  Reed  relates  that  one  of  his 
brothers  used  to  come  to  London,  to  visit  his  brother 
Will,  and  be  a  spectator  of  him  as  an  actor  in  some  of 
his  plays. 

It  is  pleasant  to  picture  that  portion  of  Shakespeare's 
life  when,  honored  and  applauded,  sunned  by  the  smiles  of 
royaltj^,  and  relieved  by  a  timely  competency  from  fever- 
ish solicitude  for  daily  bread,  he  was  enabled  to  give  the 
fullest  and  freest  play  to  that  heaven-born  genius  that 
"stooped  to  touch  the  loftiest  thought,"  and  to  chisel 
grandly  into  life  the  gorgeous  shapes  of  hght  and  loveli- 
ness that  floated  through  his  dreams,  countless  as  the  airy 
motes  that  crowd  a  sunbeam  ;  when,  at  the  Mermaid  Club, 
he  skirmished  in  wit  with  "rare  Ben  Jonson,"  talked 
over  new  drama  plots  with  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  or 
listened  with  unenvying  admiration  to  the  graceful  verses 
of  Habington  and  the  dainty  conceits  of  metaphysical 
Donne,  or  heard  with  moistened  eye  the  baby-lyrics  of 
April-mooded  Herrick,  singing  silvery  through  tears. 

Tradition  says   that  a  few  years  before  Shakespeare's 


140  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


death,  in  possession  of  an  income  of  about  one  thousand 
pounds,  —  a  sum  fully  adequate  to  his  modest  views  of 
happiness, — he  retired  to  his  native  Stratford  to  spend 
his  remaining  da3's  in  ease,  retirement,  and  the  conversa- 
tion of  his  friends.  This  event  appears  to  have  taken  place 
about  the  close  of  the  year  1613,  when,  his  wife  and  fam- 
ily about  him,  surrounded  by  familiar  scenes  and  faces, 
and  "  bearing  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him,"  in  the 
full  splendor  of  unclouded  glory  this  great  sun  ''  made  a 
golden  set." 

On  his  birthday,  the  23d  of  April,  1616,  his  spirit 
**  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil."  On  the  north  side  of  the 
chancel  of  the  great  church  at  Stratford,  he  sleeps  well. 
There  stands  a  monument  to  his  memory',  containing  his 
bust.  He  is  represented  under  an  arch,  —  *'  a  fitting 
emblem  of  that  eternal  halo  of  glory  that  spans  his 
name." 

In  1751,  one  hundred  and  thirty-five  years  after  his 
death,  a  costly  monument  was  erected  to  Shakespeare's 
memory  in  Westminster  Abbey  ;  the  expenses  of  the  stat- 
uary were  defrayed  by  a  benefit  at  each  of  the  London 
theatres. 

To  Shakespeare's  disposition  and  moral  character  tra- 
dition has  ever  borne  a  favorable  testimon}^ ;  and  his  gen- 
tle and  benevolent  heart  may  be  seen  in  almost  every  page 
of  his  works.  *'  Worth}^,"  "  gentle,"  and  '*  beloved,"  the 
epithets  uniformly  coupled  with  his  name,  prove  the  seren- 
ity of  his  temper  and  the  sweetness  of  his  manners.  *'  He 
was,"  says  Aubrey,  "very  good  company,  and  of  a  very 
ready,  pleasant,  and  smooth  wit."  Says  Rowe,  *'  He  was 
indeed  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature,  that  every 
one  who  had  a  true  taste  of  merit  and  could  distinguish 
men,  had  generally  a  just  value  and  esteem  for  him."  **  I 
loved  the  man,"  says  Ben  Jonson,  "  and  do  honor  to  his 


SHAKESPEARE.  141 

memory  this  side  idolatry,  as  much  as  any  man."  His 
lofty  conceptions  of  purity  and  goodness  are  indices  to  a 
superior  moral  nature. 

Though  Shakespeare  retired  to  ease  and  plenty  while  he 
was  yet  but  little  '^  declined  in  the  vale  of  years,"  he  made 
no  collection  of  his  works.  Of  the  plays  which  bear  his 
name  in  the  late  editions,  the  greater  part  were  not  pub- 
lished till  about  seven  years  after  his  death  ;  and  so  care- 
less was  this  immortal  bard  of  future  fame  that  the  few 
plays  which  appeared  during  his  hfe  bear  evidence  of 
having  been  thrust  into  the  world  apparently  without 
the  care  of  the  author,  and  probably-  without  his  knowl- 
edge. The  first  edition  of  Shakespeare  was  published  in 
1623;  a  second  in  1632,  —  the  same  as  the  first,  except 
that  it  was  more  disfigured  with  errors  of  the  press ;  a 
third  edition  in  1664,  and  in  1685  a  fourth.  The  public 
admiration  of  this  great  English  classic  now  demanded 
that  .he  should  receive  the  honor  of  a  commentary ;  and 
Rowe,  the  poet,  gave  an  improved  edition  in  1709.  Pope, 
Johnson,  Chalmers,  Stevens,  and  others,  successively^  pub- 
lished editions  of  the  poet,  with  copious  notes.  The  volu- 
minous edition  by  Malone  and  Boswell,  published  in 
twenty-one  volumes,  in  1821,  is  thought  by  some  to  be 
the  best  of  the  whole. 

The  critics  of  this  great  poet,  both  in  England  and  Ger- 
many, and  even  on  this  side  the  water,  are  innumerable  ; 
and  it  has  been  remarked  that  "  like  Banquo's  progeny, 
they  bid  fair  to  stretch  to  the  crack  of  doom."  It  has 
been  well  said  that  there  never  was  an  author,  ancient  or 
modern,  whose  works  have  been  so  carefullj-  anal,yzed  and 
illustrated,  so  eloquently  expounded,  or  so  universally  ad- 
mired.    In  the  words  of  Milton,  — 

"  He  so  sepulchred  in  such  pomp  doth  lie 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die." 


142       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


(( 


Macbeth,"  ''Lear,"  "Othello,"  and  "Hamlet"  are 
admitted  by  all  to  be  Shakespeare's  four  principal  trage- 
dies. "Lear"  stands  first  for  profound  intensity  of  the 
passion,  "Macbeth"  for  the  wildness  of  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  rapidity  of  the  action,  "Othello"  for  the 
progressive  interest,  and  powerful  alternations  of  feeling, 
"  Hamlet "  for  the  refined  development  of  thought  and  sen- 
timent. ' '  Twelfth  Night,  or,  What  you  Will "  and  ' '  All 's 
Well  that  Ends  Well "  have  been  considered  the  most  de- 
lightful of  his  comedies.  In  the  "  Tempest "  —  one  of  the 
most  original  and  perfect  of  his  productions  —  Shakespeare 
has  best  shown  the  variety  of  his  powers,  in  "  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream  "  the  delicac}"  and  sportive  gayety  of 
his  imagination.  Hazlitt  affirms  of  this  play  that  "it  dis- 
plays more  fancy  and  imagery,  more  sweetness  and  beauty 
of  description,  than  ma}-  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of 
French  poetrj^  put  together."  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  is 
the  only  tragedy  which  Shakespeare  has  written  entirely 
upon  a  love-story.  "  Whatever,"  observes  the  same  critic, 
"  is  most  intoxicating  in  the  odor  of  a  southern  spring, 
languishing  in  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  or  volup- 
tuous in  the  first  opening  of  the  rose,  is  to  be  found  in  this 
poem."  It  is  one  of  the  most  natural  of  Shakespeare's 
tragedies.  "Antony  and  Cleopatra"  is  a  noble  play; 
though  not  in  the  first  order  of  the  poet's  productions, 
it  is  thought  to  be  the  finest  of  his  historical  plays,  and 
presents  a  grand  picture  of  Roman  pride  and  Eastern 
magnificence.  In  "  Richard  III."  Shakespeare  has  shown 
his  masterly  delineation  of  character.  "This  play  be- 
longs rather  to  the  theatre  than  to  the  closet ; "  and  of 
all  his  plays  it  has  been  considered  most  properly  a  stage 
play.  It  is  in  Richard  III.  that  the  genius  of  Kean,  the 
great  English  tragedian,  has  achieved  its  proudest  tri- 
umphs;  and  in  that  and  "Othello,"  he  is  said  to  have 


SHAKESPEARE.  143 

acquired  his  fame.  In  ''Julius  Caesar"  the  truth  of  his- 
tory is  finely  worked  up  with  dramatic  effect.  It  is  not 
equal  to  "Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  but  abounds  in  admira- 
ble and  affecting  passages,  and  is  remarkable  for  the  pro- 
found knowledge  of  human  character  it  displays.  In 
"  Henry  IV.,"  "  The  Merry  Wives,"  ''  Measure  for  Meas- 
ure," and  "  As  You  Like  it,"  we  find  the  ripened  poetical 
imagination,  prodigality  of  invention,  contemplative  phi- 
losophy^ and  inimitable  powers  of  comedj^  "revelling  as 
in  an  atmosphere  of  joyous  life,  fresh  from  the  hand  of 
the  Creator." 

Shakespeare,  who  was  the  true  child  of  Nature,  has  in 
his  drama  disregarded  classic  rules,  pursuing  at  will  his 
airy  way  through  all  the  labyrinths  of  fancy  and  the  hu- 
man heart.  That  he  has  deviated  from  the  dramatic  uni- 
ties of  time,  place,  and  action,  laid  down  by  the  ancients 
and  adopted  by  the  stately  French  drama,  is  well-known, 
and  on  the  whole,  needs  no  defence,  since  "  in  his  trage- 
dies," as  has  been  observed,  "  he  amply  fulfils  what  Aris- 
totle admits  to  be  the  end  and  object  of  tragedy,  —  to 
beget  admiration,  terror,  or  S3'mpathy ;  and  in  his  come- 
dies, if  the  mixture  of  comic  with  tragic  scenes  is  consid- 
ered a  blemish.  Nature  must  be  the  poet's  apologist,  since 
such  blending  of  events  is  in  accordance  with  the  actual 
experience  and  vicissitudes  of  life." 

My  unaccustomed  pen  may  not  dare  attempt  to  gauge 
a  mind  whose  mjriad  powers  have  been  for  three  hun- 
dred years  the  fond  and  inexhaustible  theme  of  scholar, 
poet,  and  sage ;  and  here  I  can  but  quote  literally  from 
Craik :  — 

*'  In  what  other  drama  do  we  behold  so  living  a  humanity  as 
his?  Who  has  given  us  a  scene  either  so  crowded  with  diversi- 
ties of  character,  or  so  stirred  with  the  hurry  and  heat  of  actual 
existence?     The  men  and  the  manners  of  all  ages  and  countries 


144  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 

sses    ll 


are  there:  the  lovers  and  warriors,  the  priests  and  prophetesses 
of  the  old  heroic  and  kingly  times  of  Greece ;  the  Athenians 
of  the  days  of  Pericles  and  Alcibiades;  the  proud  patricians 
and  turbulent  commonality  of  the  earliest  period  of  republican 
Rome,  —  Caesar  and  Brutus,  and  Cassius  and  Antony,  and  Cleo- 
patra, and  the  other  splendid  figures  of  that  later  Roman  scene; 
the  kings  and  queens  and  princes  and  courtiers  of  barbaric  Den- 
mark and  Roman  Britain,  and  Britain  before  the  Romans,  and 
those  of  Scotland  in  the  time  of  the  English  Heptarchy ;  those 
of  England  and  France  at  the  era  of  Magna  Charta;  all  ranks 
of  the  people  of  almost  every  reign  of  our  subsequent  history 
from  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  to  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 
century ;  not  to  speak  of  Venice  and  Verona  and  Mantua  and 
Padua  and  Illyria  and  Navarre,  and  the  forest  of  Arden,  and  all 
the  other  towns  and  lands  which  he  has  peopled  for  us  with 
their  most  real  inhabitants. 

"Not  even  in  his  plays  is  Shakespeare  a  mere  dramatist. 
Apart  altogether  from  his  dramatic  power  he  is  the  greatest 
poet  that  ever  lived. 

*'  His  sympathy  is  the  most  universal,  his  imagination  the  most 
plastic,  his  diction  the  most  expressive  ever  given  to  any  writer. 
His  poetry  has  in  itself  the  varied  power  and  excellence  of  all 
other  poetry.  While  in  grandeur  and  beauty  and  passion  and 
sweetest  music,  and  all  the  other  higher  gifts  of  song,  he  may 
be  ranked  with  the  greatest,  —  with  Spenser  and  Chaucer  and 
Milton  and  Dante  and  Homer,  —  he  is  at  the  same  time  more 
nervous  than  Dryden  and  more  sententious  than  Pope,  and 
more  sparkling,  and  of  more  abounding  conceit,  when  he 
chooses,  than  Donne  or  Cowley  or  Butler. 

"  In  what  handling  was  language  ever  such  a  flame  of  fire  as  it 
is  in  his?  His  wonderful  potency  in  the  use  of  this  instrument 
would  alone  set  him  above  all  other  writers." 

It  has  been  stated  that  in  the  English  language  the 
number  of  words  in  ordinary  use  does  not  exceed  three 
thousand.  A  rough  calculation,  founded  on  Mrs.  Clarke's 
concordance,  gives  about  twenty-one  thousand  as  the  num- 
ber to  be  found  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  without  count- 


SHAKESPEARE.  145 

ing  inflectional  forms  as  distinct  words.  Not  more  than 
seven  thousand  are  given  for  Milton,  making,  by  a  fair 
estimate,  his  vocabulary  not  more  than  half  as  copious  as 
the  Shakespearian. 

The  revolution  that  Shakespeare  wrought  upon  the  Eng- 
lish drama  is  clearly  shown  by  comparing  his  earliest  plays 
with  the  best  the  language  possessed  before  his  time. 
Characters  in  which  polished  manners  and  easy  grace  are 
as  predominant  as  wit,  reflection,  or  fanc}^  were  then  as 
unknown  to  the  stage  as  to  actual  life,  and  are  simply'  the 
creations  of  his  genius.  The  honor  of  creating  the  Eng- 
lish drama  itself  is  indeed  not  claimed  for  Shakespeare ; 
but  b}'  refining  its  rudeness,  and  giving  it  grace  and  ele- 
vation, he  regenerated  and  wholly  transformed  it.  His 
comedies  have  been  aptly  termed  ''meteors  of  wit,  filled 
with  a  humor  that  finds  the  kernel  of  the  ludicrous  in  ever}^- 
thing."  What  other  dramatist  coukl  have  created  for  us 
a  Slender,  a  Dogberrj',  a  Launcelot,  a  Touchstone,  and  a 
Launce,  and  last  but  not  least,  that  rare  embodiment  of 
wit  and  humor,  huge  FalstaflT,  "  larding  the  lean  earth  as 
he  walks  along  "  ?  —  a  character  "  whose  very  vices,"  it  has 
been  said,  "  seem  made  for  our  delight,  since  he  is  a  liar, 
a  glutton,  a  braggart,  and  a  coward  more  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  others  than  for  the  gratification  of  himself."  Jus- 
tice Shallow  is  to  him  ' '  a  man  made  after  supper  from 
a  cheese-paring."  "If  to  be  fat,"  quoth  he,  "is  to  be 
hated,  then  Pharaoh's  lean  kine  are  to  be  loved." 

Some  of  Shakespeare's  clowns  and  fools  are  but  mere 
poetical  creations  ;  yet  man}^  of  them  are  to  be  met  with 
in  real  life,  and  are  familiar  as  sunshine.  Of  this  sort  is 
Launce,  in  the  "Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,"  and  those 
"  hempen  homespuns,"  the  Athenian  clowns,  met  by  moon- 
light in  the  fairy-haunted  wood  to  rehearse  their  grand 
tragedy  of  "  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,"   proposed    by   them 

10 


146       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

as  a  part  of  the  festivities  attending  the  marriage  of  the 
Duke  of  Athens.  It  has  been  justly  affirmed  that  of  all 
poets  we  must  accord  to  Shakespeare  the  most  unbounded 
range  of  fanciful  invention.  Who  like  him  has  "  given  to 
airy  nothing  a  local  habitation  and  a  name "  ?  How  his 
Ariel,  dainty  as  the  down  of  a  thistle,  "  drinks  the  air  be- 
fore him  "  !  How  perfectly  he  does  his  spiriting,  —  "  be  't 
to  fly,  to  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  or  to  ride  on  the 
curled  clouds"  !  Like  a  "  singing  gossamer"  he  floats  in 
the  air,  warbling,  — 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer,  merrily : 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough." 

Even  that  strange  monster  Caliban,  moved  by  concord 
of  sweet  sounds,  is  charmed  by  this  creature  of  ethereal 
essences ;  thus  he  discourses  to  the  tipsy  Trinculo,  when 
startled  by  Ariel's  invisible  music,  which  he  calls  *'  the 
tune  of  Our  Catch,  played  by  the  picture  of  Nobod}","  — 

'*  Be  not  afeard  ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises. 
Sounds  and  sweet  airs  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears  ;  and  sometimes  voices. 
That  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 
Will  make  me  sleep  again :  and  then  in  dreaming, 
The  clouds  methought  would  open  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me ;  that  when  I  waked 
I  cry'd  to  dream  again." 

It  has  been  noted  that  "  Shakespeare  has  drawn  off 
from  Caliban  the  elements  of  whatever  is  ethereal  and  re- 
fined to  compound  them  in  Ariel,  thus  finely  contrasting 


SHAKESPEARE.  147 

the  gross  and  the  delicate ; "  and  what  a  creature  he  is ! 
'*  Hag-seed,"  says  Prospero,  — 

"  Which  any  print  of  goodness  would  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  ill."  .  .  . 

"  A  thing  most  brutish,  whose  vile  nature  had 
That  in  't  which  good  natures  could  not  abide 
To  be  with." 

Critics  have  considered  the  character  of  Caliban  one  of 
Shakespeare's  master-pieces.  His  deformity  of  body  and 
mind  is  redeemed  b}^  the  power  and  truth  of  the  imagina- 
tion displayed  in  his  creation,  and  by  that  rare  embodi- 
ment of  the  very  essence  of  grossness  without  a  particle 
of  vulgarity.  One  of  Shakespeare's  German  critics  has 
observed  that  "Caliban  is  a  poetical  character,  and  al- 
ways speaks  in  blank  verse  ;  "  and  it  will  be  remembered 
that  he  first  appears  in  the  play  with  this  rhythmical  male- 
diction on  his  lips  :  — 

"  As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brushed 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen, 
Drop  on  you  both !  A  south-west  blow  on  ye. 
And  blister  you  all  o'er." 

"In  contrast  with  Trinculo  and  Stephano,  the  vulgar 
drunken  sailors,  with  their  coarse  sea-wit,  the  figure  of 
Caliban,"  says  Hazlitt,  '*  acquires  a  classical  dignity." 

"What  have  we  here?"  says  Trinculo  (Shakespeare's  ad- 
mirable prototype  of  the  "  dime  showman")  "  A  man,  or  a  fish  ? 
Dead,  or  alive  ?  A  fish :  a  strange  fish.  Were  I  but  in  England 
now  (as  once  I  was),  and  had  but  this  fish  painted,  not  a  holiday 
fool  there  but  would  give  a  piece  of  silver :  any  strange  beast 
there  makes  a  man  :  when  they  will  not  give  a  doit  to  relieve  a 
lame  beggar,  they  will  lay  out  ten  to  see  a  dead  Indian." 

Who  but  Shakespeare  could  have  given  us  Puck, — funny 
little  Puck  ?     The   Ariel  of  the   "  Midsummer   Night's 


148       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Dream,"  he  has  been  called ;  yet  in  the  main,  how  unlike 
is  he  to  the  ''sprite  of  Prospero'M  Ariel  is  tender  and 
human,  and  touched  with  pity  for  those  upon  whom  he 
brings  ill.  Puck  is  a  wanton  Troll,  innately  delighting 
in  mischief,  and  heartily  enjoying  the  discomfiture  of  his 
victims.  "Lord,"  he  exclaims,  "what  fools  these  mor- 
tals be!" 

"  He  bootless  makes  the  breathless  houseAvif e  churn." 
'*  Misleads  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm." 

"  The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale  [he  boasts], 
Sometimes  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me ; 
Then  slip  I  from  her,  and  down  topples  she." 


1 

I 


When  he  has  culled  for  Oberon  the  little  western  flower, 
"purple  with  love's  wound,"  and  the  Fairy  King  having 
squeezed  upon  the  sleepy  lids  of  perverse  Titania  its  11 
charmed  juice,  she  is  constrained  by  that  potent  liquid  to 
dote  insanely  on  ass-headed  Bottom,  whose  "  angelic  bray- 
ing wakes  her  from  her  flower}^  bed,"  with  what  infinite 
relish  Puck  brings  the  scandal  to  Oberon  !  We  seem  to 
hear  an  ethereal  chuckle  as  he  declares,  — 

"  When  in  that  moment  (so  it  came  to  pass), 
Titania  wak'd  and  straitway  loved  an  ass !  " 

And  Titania  and  her  train,  how  exquisite  are  they,  float- 
ing like  very  flower-petals  in  the  summer  moonlight  ! 
Daintily  they  sprite  it  — 

"  Over  hill,  over  dale. 
Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier. 
Over  park,  over  pale, 
Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire." 

When  the  Fairy  Queen  couches  upon  that  bank  "  where 
the  wild  thyme  blows,"  how  softly  the  attendant  fairies 
sing  her  to  sleep  !    Hear  the  chorus  of  their  song,  steeped 


SHAKESPEARE.  149 

ill  the  juice  of  poppies,  and  rhythmical  as  the  rain  on 
the  roof: — 

"  Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulli,  luUa,  lullaby ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So,  good-night,  with  lullaby." 

The  devotion  of  dainty  Titania  to  the  donkey  of  her 
heart  is  conceived  in  that  fine  vein  of  philosophical  insight 
which  often  runs  like  a  thread  of  gold  through  the  gayest 
web  from  the  loom  of  Shakespeare's  fanc}^  and  her  fairy- 
like devices  for  purging  away  the  mortal  grossness  of 
Bottom  are  true  to  the  life.  Who  has  not  seen  similar  and 
equally  futile  attempts  made  by  misplaced  mortal  love, 
striving  to  idealize  its  indifferent  object  ? 

In  fine  contrast  to  Shakespeare's  fairies  are  the  Weird 
Sisters  in  "  Macbeth,"  — 

"  So  withered  and  so  wild  in  their  attire ; 
That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  o'  the  earth. 
And  yet  are  on  't.  .  .  . 
Each  at  once  her  choppy  fingers  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips." 

*' The  hags  of  Shakespeare,"  says  Hazlitt,  "are  foul  anom- 
alies, of  whom  we  know  not  whence  they  are  sprung,  nor 
whether  they  have  beginning  or  ending.  As  they  are  without 
human  passions,  so  they  are  without  human  relations.  They 
come  with  thunder  and  lightning,  and  vanish  to  airy  music. 
This  is  all  we  know  of  them.  Except  Hecate,  they  have  no 
names,  which  heightens  their  mysteriousness.  The  names  and 
some  of  the  properties  which  Middleton  has  given  to  his  witches 
excite  smiles. 

"  The  Weird  Sisters  are  serious  things.  Their  presence  can- 
not co-exist  with  mirth." 


150  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Hear  their  diabolical  croon,  — 

"  Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair, 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air ! " 

Blood-curdling  indeed  is  the  simmer  of  that  '•' double 
trouble,"  steaming  in  their  charmed  caldron.  One  look 
into  it  is  a  sup  of  horror. 

"  Toad  that  under  coldest  stone 
Days  and  nights  hast  thirty-one ! 
Sweltered  venom  sleeping  got. 
Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot ! 

Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 

Fire,  burn ;  and  cauldron,  bubble. 

"Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  cauldron  boil  and  bake : 
Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog. 
Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog. 
Adder's  fork,  and  blind  worm's  sting, 
Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing 
For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble ; 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 

Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 

Fire,  burn ;  and  cauldron,  bubble. 


"  Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips  ; 
Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe 
Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab. 

Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood. 
Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good." 

And  with  what  malignant  relish  the  vengeful  hag,  gossip- 
ing with  her  sister-witch,  gloats  over  her  punishment  of 
that  frugal  sailor's  wife  who  — 

"...  had  chestnuts  in  her  lap 
And  mounched,  and  mounched,  and  mounched/* 


SHAKESPEARE.  151 

and  gave  her  none  !  With  a  cold  shiver,  one  fancies  the 
doomed  "  master  o'  the  Tiger  "  crushed  "  Hke  a  rat  with- 
out a  tail,"  in  the  hard  hand  of  her  vengeance ! 

When  our  staid  Puritans  had  their  one  freak  of  fancj^,  — 
witch-making,  —  the}'  must  here  have  caught  their  inspi- 
ration. And  indeed  Banquo's  affirmation  in  respect  to 
the  component  parts  of  these  cliimeras  — 

"  The  earth  hath  bubbles  as  the  water  hath. 
And  these  are  of  them  "  — 

would  seem  to  suggest  the  direct  descent  of  our  New  Eng- 
land witches  from  the  Weird  Sisters  of  Shakespeare. 

In  the  reign  of  sober  reality  who  can  "  hold  a  candle  " 
to  this  great  dramatist?  Compare  the  best-drawn  char- 
acters of  his  brother  artists  —  Jonson,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Marlowe,  and  others  —  with  his  passion-tossed 
Othello,  his  philosophical,  refined  Hamlet,  his  sinning 
and  repenting  Macbeth,  his  pitiable,  white-haired  Lear, 
or  his  greedy,  hating  Shylock,  his  "  cold-blooded,  bottled 
spider,"  Richard  III.,  and  that  subtle,  detested  villain, 
lago ;  and  you  will  see  that  even  when  they  are  at  their 
best,  he  is  a  thousand  times  better  than  any  of  them. 

The  comedies  of  these  dramatists  smack  of  the  "  hempen 
homespuns  "  to  whose  level  the}^  were  written.  Shake- 
speare's, though  they  sometimes  stoop,  are  pitched  in 
another  key,  and  all  ablaze  with  genuine  Attic  wit.  By 
some  divine  instinct  he  sounded  all  the  mysterious  depths 
of  our  nature,  and  like  a  cunning  musician  placed  upon 
every  string  of  that  complex  instrument,  —  the  human 
heart. 

Every  woman  should  plant  her  sprig  of  rosemary  on  the 
grave  of  Shakespeare;  for  of  all  dramatists  he  has  most 
commended  our  sex  by  his  loft}"  ideals  of  womanhood. 
His  are  the  truest  and  yet  the  noblest  of  women, — 
not  rose-scented  specimens  of  diluted  sentimentality,  nor 


152  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

yet  strong-minded  Amazons,  but  women  all  instinct  with 
the  real  beauty  of  perfect  womanhood, —  "the  sense  of 
weakness  leaning  on  the  strength  of  affection  for  support." 
Their  tenderness  is  rich  as  golden  mines,  and  unalloj-ed 
by  affectation  or  disguise.  Their  purity  is  like  the  snow 
on  sky-kissed  mountain  peaks ;  their  constancy  firm  as 
the  everlasting  hills.  Their  piet}'  is  native  as  the  air  thej' 
breathe,  and  without  cant  or  h3'pocrisy.  Timid  and  deli- 
cate bj^  nature,  they  are,  by  the  might  of  affection,  some- 
times sublimed  and  transfigured  into  martjTS  and  saints. 
They  are  beautiful  as  painter's  ideals  and  graceful  as 
sculptor's  dreams ;  3'et  we  often  forget  their  outward 
charms  in  the  diviner  beauty  of  their  souls,  and  thus 

"...  With  flowers,  with  angel  offices, 
Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act. 
And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they  move." 

"  By  quoting  passages  from  Shakespeare's  second-rate 
plays  alone,  we  might,"  sa^s  Hazlitt,  "make  a  volume 
rich  with  his  praise  as  is  the  oozy  bottom  of  the  sea  with 
sunken  wrack  and  sunless  treasures."  Of  this  sort  is 
King  Henry's  address  to  the  soldiers  at  the  siege  of 
Harfleur,  and  that  of  Cassius  to  Brutus,  instigating  him 
to  join  in  the  conspiracy  against  Caesar,  and  Mark 
Antony's  address  to  the  throng  of  citizens  in  the  Forum, 
over  Caesar's  corpse. 

If  space  but  allowed,  page  after  page  might  be  taken 
from  his  drama  to  prove  that  in  moral  sentiment  Shake- 
speare far  foreran  his  age,  as  in  this  divine  conception 
of  mercy :  — 

"  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  It  is  twice  bless'd ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 


SHAKESPEARE.  153 

*  T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 

His  sceptre  sliows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings : 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway. 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  heart  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself ; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 

When  mercy  seasons  justice." 

That  Shakespeare  is  great  poet  as  well  as  great  drama- 
tist, we  realize  as  we  read  this  exquisite  passage  from 
the  "  Merchant  of  Venice  "  :  — 

" .  .  .  In  such  a  night  as  this. 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees. 
And  they  did  make  no  noise ;  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents. 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

In  such  a  night 
Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

In  such  a  night 
Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  JEson. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica  !     Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ; 
There 's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubim ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it.*' 


154       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


What  poet  has  ever  put  more  beauty  into  three  or  four 
short  hues  than  we  find  here  :  — 

«...  Daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  ;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath." 

**  Nature,"  it  is  affirmed,  "is  not  drained,  and  is  yet 
potent  for  marvels  ; "  yet  who  may  dare  hope  for  another 
Shakespeare?  As  we  hang  entranced  upon  the  music  of 
England's  singing-birds,  —  the  richest,  fullest  choir  in  any 
land  the  sun  shines  upon,  —  we  may  hear,  with  ever- 
new  delight,  Milton,  her  silver- throated  lark,  fluting  un- 
abashed at  celestial  altitude,  and  showering  all  her  pearl- 
sown  meadows  with  the  gracious  rain  of  his  song ;  but 
nearer  and  dearer  is  the  lay  of  Shakespeare,  —  her  winsome 
robin,  a-tilt  among  rosy  orchard  blooms,  and  warbling  in 
the  gay  sunshine  his  "  wood-notes  wild."  Soothed  by  ''a 
sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss,"  we  listen  gratefully  to  his 
ever-varying  song,  full,  rich,  and  tender,  yet  clear  and 
familiar  as  the  drone  of  the  cricket  beside  our  hearth. 
Milton  niched  in  cathedral  walls,  amid  gorgeous  gloom 
and  divine  minster  strains,  is  enshrined  for  all  time. 
But  Shakespeare  we  set  among  our  Penates  ;  his  shrine  is 
in  our  hearts  and  homes.  We  find  him  ''  a  creature  not 
too  bright  and  good  for  human  nature's  daily  food,"  but 

fit  — 

"  For  every  day's  most  quiet  use 
By  sun  and  candle-light." 

He  is  our  story-teller,  our  jester,  our  preacher,  our  doctor 
(homoeopathic  too,  for  has  he  not  said  to  us,  through  the 
great  Thane  of  Cawdor,  — 

"  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs ;  I  '11  none  of  it  "), 


SHAKESPEARE.  155 

our  teacher,  our  poet,  our  brother,  and  our  friend,  —  our 
Shakespeare  !  Age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale  his 
infinite  variety.  "  Let  men  then  acknowledge  his  great 
office ;  let  civilization  know  and  not  forget  its  authors 
and  ornaments." 


156  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

POETRY    OF    THE    COMMONWEALTH   AND   THE 
RESTORATION. 

*t  TOURING  the  forty  years  comprehended  in  the  period  of 
J_/  the  Commonwealth  and  the  reigns  of  Charles  II.  and 
James  II.,  there  was  less  change  in  the  taste  and  literature  of 
the  nation  than  might  have  been  anticipated,  considering  the 
mighty  events  which  had  agitated  the  country,  and  must  have 
deeply  influenced  the  national  feelings,  —  such  as  the  abolition 
of  the  ancient  monarchy  of  England  and  the  establishment  of 
the  Commonwealth.  Authors  were  still  a  select  class,  and 
literature,  the  delight  of  the  learned,  had  not  yet  become  food 
for  the  multitude. 

"  The  spirit  of  chivalry,  even  before  the  death  of  Elizabeth,  had 
begun  to  yield  to  more  practical  and  sober  views  of  life;  and  the 
long  period  of  peace  under  James  nourished  the  spirit  of  inquiry 
now  rapidly  spreading  among  the  people,  fostering  the  reasoning 
faculties  and  mechanical  powers  rather  than  the  imagination." 

During  the  reign  of  Charles  L  —  a  prince  of  taste  and 
accomplishments — the  style  of  the  Elizabethan  era  was 
partially  revived,  though  its  lustre  extended  but  little 
beyond  the  court  and  the  nobility.  During  the  Civil  War 
and  the  Protectorate,  poetr}^  and  the  drama  were  buried 
under  the  strife  and  anxiety  of  contending  factions. 
Cromwell,  whose  boast  was  that  he  would  *'make  the 
name  of  an  Englishman  as  great  as  ever  that  of  a  Roman 
had  been,"  —  a  wish  which,  in  England's  splendid  naval 
victories  and  unquestioned  foreign  supremac}',  seemed 
almost  realized,  —  had    neither  time   nor  incUnation    to 


THE   COMMONWEALTH  AND  RESTORATION.      157 

patronize  poetry.  If,  as  Carljle  affirms,  "  he  that  loorJcs 
and  does  some  poem^  not  he  that  says  one,  is  worthy 
the  name  of  poet,"  Cromwell  was  himself  a  poet,  and 
shaped  the  grandest  epic  of  all  time. 

The  severity  and  exclusiveness  of  Puritanism,  that  un- 
wisely sought  to  put  down  all  works  of  imagination  in 
England,  the  lovers  of  art  must  forever  deplore  ;  yet  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  this  was  but  a  natural  and  neces- 
sary revolt  against  the  luxur}^  and  immorality  of  the  age. 
*' These  men,"  as  Carlyle  expresses  it,  "knew  in  every 
fibre,  and  with  heroic  daring  laid  to  heart,  that  it  is  good 
to  fight  on  God's  side  and  bad  to  fight  on  the  Devil's 
side."  No  wonder,  then,  that  to  them  the  drama  was 
anathema  maraiiatha,  and  playwrights  but  panderers  to 
the  national  appetite  for  abominations ;  for  with  all  our 
admiration  for  the  dramatic  genius  that  has  immortalized 
the  Elizabethan  age,  we  must  admit  that  the  builders  of 
the  old  English  drama,  —  Shakespeare  excluded,  —  though 
in  their  loftier  flights  they  soared  like  "  Jove's  proud 
bird,"  wide-eyed  and  unabashed,  to  salute  the  sun,  did 
not  scruple  to  become  mere  barn-yard  fowl,  lowering  to 
the  level  of  the  pit  and  catering  to  the  ignoble  taste  of  the 
gross  and  the  depraved,  thus  debasing  their  finest  plays 
by  passages  which  good  morals  must  forever  ignore.  An 
age  that  delighted  in  bear-baiting  and  bull-fighting  as 
polite  recreation  cannot  altogether  be  judged  by  our  own 
standard  of  decorum ;  yet  when  we  read  that  Shirley's 
"  Gamester"  — the  plot  of  which  was  taken  from  a  cor- 
rupt Italian  novel  and  given  to  the  author  by  King  Charles 
himself — was  acted  at  court,  and  that  the  king  said  it  was 
''  the  best  play  he  had  seen  for  seven  j^ears  "  (a  play  of 
which  Macaulay  has  said,  "  It  is  difficult  to  say  whether 
it  indicates  a  lower  standard  of  courtesy  and  purity  in  the 
poet  or  in  the  audience  who  endured  it "),  we  must  allow 


158       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


that  when  gentles  and  commons  had  alike  become  thus 
vitiated,  Puritanism,  though  far  from  Attic  in  its  savor, 
was  undoubtedly  the  only  salt  that  could  save  already- 
tainted  England  from  utter  social  corruption. 

Yet  this  public  degeneracy  had  not  infected  the  whole 
atmosphere  of  genius,  since  to  this  period  belongs  one  of 
the  proudest  triumphs,  of  English  poetry.  In  the  reign  of 
Cliarles  II.,  — a  king  who,  though  by  birth  and  education 
better  fitted  than  Cromwell  for  a  patron  of  the  arts,  was 
rendered  by  a  perverted  taste  and  an  indolent,  sensual 
disposition  as  injurious  to  art  and  literature  as  to  the 
public  morals,  —  in  this  reign,  which  has  been  termed 
"  the  age  of  servitude  without  loyalt}^  and  sensuality  with- 
out love,  of  dwarfish  talents  and  gigantic  vices,  the  para- 
dise of  cold  hearts  and  narrow  minds,  the  golden  age  of 
the  coward,  the  bigot,  and  the  slave,"  Milton  produced 
his  divine  epic  ;  thus  proving  that ''  Virtue  could  see  to  do 
what  Virtue  would,  by  her  own  radiant  light,"  and  that 
"  Infinite  Goodness  has  never  for  a  long  time  left  a  nation 
without  some  good  and  great  mind  to  guide  and  illuminate 
the  onward  course  of  humanity." 

In  the  times  of  Charles  I.  and  of  the  Commonwealth 
our  modern  English  poetry  first  evinced  a  disposition  to 
imitate  the  French  poetry,  the  distinguishing  charac- 
teristic of  which  (and  indeed  of  French  art  generally)  is 
"  the  art  of  making  art  itself  seem  nature."  The  French 
school  of  poetry  is  characterized  b}^  a  decided  preference 
for  what  is  brilliant  rather  than  what  is  true  and  deep, 
and  while  it  does  not  altogether  eschew  conceits  and  false 
thoughts,  is  still  in  subordination  to  the  principles  and 
laws  of  good  writing,  and  alwa3's  reduces  conceit  to  fair 
rhetorical  shape.  Waller,  Carew,  Lovelace,  and  Suck- 
ling, who  all  began  to  write  about  this  time,  first  exempli- 
fied in  our  lighter  poetry,  by  the  French  neatness  in  the 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  AND  RESTORATION.      159 

dressing  of  the  thought,  what  may  be  done  by  correct  and 
natural  expression  and  smoothness  of  flow,  without  high 
imagination  or  depth  of  thought.  Waller,  of  the  four, 
was  first  in  the  field,  but  he  did  not  rise  to  his  greatest 
celebrity  till  after  the  Restoration.  Carew,  Lovelace, 
and  Suckhng  all  belong  exclusively  to  the  reign  of 
Charles  I.  and  of  the  Commonwealth. 

Carew  was  a  courtier,  and  loose  and  reckless  in  life. 
The  Celia  whom  he  celebrates  in  his  verse  is  said  to  have 
repaid  his  flatteries  by  falsehood ;  and  thus  disappointed, 
he  plunged  madly  into  pleasure,  and  thereby  hastened  his 
end.  Before  his  death  he  is  said  to  have  bitterly  and  sin- 
cerely repented  the  license  of  his  past  life.  At  the  time 
he  wrote,  the  passionate  and  imaginative  verse  of  the 
Elizabethan  period  was  not  wholl3^  exhausted,  and  it  has 
been  observed  that  the  genial  and  warm  tints  that  still 
colored  the  landscape  were  in  some  measure  reflected  back 
b}'  Carew.  His  short  pieces  and  songs,  now  the  only  pro- 
ductions of  his  that  are  read,  are  graceful  in  sentiment 
and  style,  and  were,  in  his  day,  exceedingly  popular. 

Lovelace,  "  whose  fate  and  history  would  form  the 
groundwork  for  a  romance,"  wrote  a  volume  of  poems  ded- 
icated to  Lucy  Sacheverel,  to  whom  he  was  betrothed. 
Her  poetical  appellation,  according  to  the  affected  taste  of 
the  da}^,  was  Lucasta.  When  the  civil  wars  broke  out, 
Lovelace  devoted  his  life  and  fortunes  to  the  service  of 
his  king,  and  on  joining  the  arm}^,  he  wrote  to  his  Lucy 
this  beautiful  song,  which  has  been  so  often  quoted,  and 
has  more  true  feeling  and  correct  sentiment  than  any  piece 
of  his  time :  — 

"Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 
That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 


160       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 
The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 
A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

"  Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  you,  too,  shall  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Lov'd  I  not  honour  more." 

Commanding  a  regiment  at  the  siege  of  Dunkirk,  Love- 
lace was  severely,  and  it  was  supposed  mortallj^,  w^ounded. 
False  tidings  of  his  death  were  brought  to  England,  and 
he  returned  to  find  his  idolized  Luc}'  married  to  another, 
—  a  blow  from  which  he  never  recovered.  He  became 
utterly  reckless,  wandering  about  London  in  obscurit}'  and 
povert}^ ;  and  the  accomplished  Lovelace,  fearlessly  brave, 
handsome  in  person,  a  polished  high-born  courtier  and  an  11 
elegant  scholar,  in  his  thirty-seventh  year  died  miserably 
in  an  obscure  lodging  in  Shoe  Lane.  ''  Luc}'  Sacheverel," 
says  Mrs.  Jameson,  ''  was  of  noble  blood  ;  but  her  lover  || 
has  bequeathed  her  to  posterity  forever  as  faithless  and 
heartless,  light  as  air,  false  as  water,  and  rash  as  fire." 
LoA^elace's  best  poem  is  addressed  *'  To  Althea  from 
Prison." 

Sir  John  Suckling,  who,  as  has  been  aptly  said,  "  moved 
gayly  and  thoughtlessly  through  his  short  life,  as  through 
a  dance  or  a  meriy  game,  died  in  1641,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-two.  He  is  the  author  of  a  small  collection 
of  poems,  as  well  as  of  four  plays.  Plis  poetry,  though 
he  is  classed  with  the  adherents  of  the  French  school 
of  propriety  and  precision,  is  characterized  by  a  more 
impulsive  air  and  more  impetuositj'  of  manner  than  that 
of  Waller,  Lovelace,  or  Carew ;  he  has,  moreover,  a 
sprightliness  and  buo3'ancy  which  is  all  his  own.  His 
famous  ballad  of  "  The  Wedding "  is  quoted  by  critics 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  AND   RESTORATION.      161 

as  the  very  perfection  of  gayety  and  archness  in  verse. 
This  one  famihar  stanza  has  in  its  way  never  been  ex- 
celled :  — 

"  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 
As  if  they  feared  the  light ; 
But  oh !  she  dances  such  a  way 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 
Is  half  so  fine  a  sight ! " 

In  Brand's  "  Popular  Antiquities"  this  verse  is  quoted 
in  illustration  of  the  popular  notion  in  former  times  that 
the  sun  danced  on  Easter-day,  —  a  superstition  still  held 
by  many  of  the  Irish  peasantry. 

Inferior  to  Suckling  in  natural  feeling,  j^et  excelling  him 
in  correctness  and  in  general  powers  of  versification,  is 
Edmund  Waller,  born  in  1605.  His  mother  was  a  sister 
to  the  celebrated  John  Hampden,  but  is  said  to  have  been 
so  violent  a  Royalist  that  Cromwell  made  her  a  prisoner  to 
her  own  daughter  in  her  own  house.  Her  son,  the  poet, 
who  was  witty  and  accomplished,  but  cold  and  selfish,  and 
destitute  of  high  principle  and  deep  feeling,  was  either  a 
Roundhead  or  a  Royalist  as  the  time  served.  At  twent}'- 
five  a  widower,  ga}^  and  wealth}^,  he  became  a  suitor  to  Lad}' 
Dorothea  Sidney,  eldest  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
who,  unmoved  b}'  all  the  poetry  in  which  the  heartless 
wit  celebrates  her  under  the  name  of  Sacharissa,  gave  her 
hand  to  the  Count  of  Sunderland.  It  is  said  that  Waller, 
meeting  her  long  afterward  when  she  was  far  advanced 
in  years,  the  lady  asked  him  playfully  when  he  would 
again  write  such  verses  upon  her.  ''When  30U  are  as 
3'oung,  Madam,  and  as  handsome  as  you  were  then,"  was 
his  heartless  repl}-. 

Waller's  political  course  was  throughout  mean  and  ab- 
ject ;  while  a  member  of  Parliament  under  Cromwell,  he 

11 


162  ENGLISH  POETKY  AND  POETS. 


I 


plotted  the  return  of  Charles,  for  which  he  was  tried, 
imprisoned  a  3'ear,  and  heavily  fined.  He  celebrates 
Cromwell  in  one  of  his  most  vigorous  odes,  and  no  sooner 
is  the  king  restored  to  the  throne,  than  he  is  ready  with  a 
congratulatory  address. 

Charles,  who  admitted  the  poet  to  terms  of  courtly  in- 
timacy, remarked  to  Waller  the  inferiority  of  the  royal 
offering  to  the  panegyric  on  Cromwell ;  as  ever,  witty  and 
self-possessed,  he  replied,  "Poets,  Sire,  succeed  better  in 
fiction  than  in  truth."  Waller's  wit  and  sagacity  made 
him  the  delight  of  the  House  of  Commons.  He  served  in 
all  the  parliaments  of  Charles's  reign ;  and  at  the  acces- 
sion of  James  II.,  in  1685,  we  find  him  re-elected  at  the 
venerable  age  of  eighty.  He  died  on  the  21st  of  October, 
1687.  Waller  in  early  manhood  devoted  his  muse  to  the 
world  of  fashion  and  taste,  and  he  wrote  in  the  same 
strain  till  he  was  upward  of  fourscore.  He  was  styled  by 
his  cotemporaries  the  ''  maker  and  model  of  melodious 
verse."  Pope  and  Dryden  —  poets  who  had  not  suffi- 
ciently studied  the  excellent  models  of  versification  fur- 
nished by  the  old  poets  and  their  rich  poetical  diction  — 
have  both  confirmed  this  eulogium.  More  discerning  crit- 
ics have  allowed  him  sportive  sparkling  wit,  elegance  of 
fanc}'  and  st3'le,  and  easiness  of  versification,  which,  in 
our  interpretation  of  the  divine  meaning  of  poet,  but 
poorly  atone  for  lack  of  genuine  feeling  and  the  roj-al 
power  of  interpreting  Nature  to  man. 

Carew  and  Waller  represent  the  popular  court  poets  of 
their  school,  whose  aspirations  seem  to  have  been  bounded 
by  the  narrow  circle  in  which  they  revolved.  ''  Satis- 
fied," says  a  discerning  critic,  *'  with  the  emptj^  applause 
of  a  court,  they  asked  not  to  live  in  future  generations,  or 
to  sound  the  depths  of  the  human  heart.  A  panegyric  on 
a  fine  lady  was  the  loftiest  theme  of  their  ambition.     The 


THE   COMMONWEALTH  AND  RESTORATION.      163 

heart  appears  to  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  poeti- 
cal homage  offered  and  accepted." 

This  poem  to  Celia  —  Carew's  best  —  is  an  example  of 
this  style  of  poetry :  — 

"  Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose ; 
Eor  in  your  beauties,  orient  deep, 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

"  Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

**  Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

**  Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  Phenix  builds  her  spicy  nest, 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies ! " 

Equally  elegant  and  extravagant  is  this  from  Waller,  on 
"A  Girdle:"  — 

"  That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind ; 
It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer ; 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move  ! 
A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that 's  good,  and  all  that 's  fair. 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round." 

These  pretty  poetical  poesies,  dedicated  to  the  Delias 
and  Celias,  the  divine  Sacharissas  and  fair  Amorets,  who, 
with  their  rosy  cheeks  and  coral  lips,  are  as  insipid  as 


164  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

waxen  dolls,  inspire  us  with  but  little  admiration.  It 
charms  us  not  that  like  the  lovers  of  gorgeous  Eastern 
climes,  these  poets  talk  in  flowers,  since  their  nosega3's 
are  not  pure  and  fresh,  with  morning  dew  upon  their  fair 
blossoms,  but  rather,  stale,  artificial  wired  bouquets,  whose 
roses  sicken,  whose  violets  faint,  and  whose  lilies,  though 
regal  and  heavy  with  odor,  are  bereft  of  their  snow. 

A  single  short  lyric  of  Robert  Burns,  beginning  thus,  — ■ 

"  Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blow 
I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives 
The  lass  that  I  lo'e  best,"  — 

contains  more  true  sentiment  and  fresh,  natural  feehng  than 
may  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  the  poetry  of  this  school. 

Though  Waller's  poems  are  chiefly  short  and  incidental, 
he  wrote  a  poem  on  "Divine  Love,"  in  six  cantos.  In 
this  higher  walk  of  the  muse  he  seems  to  have  failed.  His 
panegyric  to  Cromwell  has  been  pronounced  "  one  of  the 
most  graceful  pieces  of  adulation  ever  offered  by  poetry 
to  power."  It  was  an  offering  of  gratitude  for  permission 
to  return  to  England  after  his  banishment,  and  was  prob- 
ably more  sincere  than  most  of  his  effusions. 

This  fine  passage  occurs  in  one  of  "Waller's  late  poems  ; 
we  may  hope  that,  so  near  the  grave,  he  has  at  last  bid 
farewell  to  feigning :  — 

"  The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed. 
Lets  in  new  lights  through  chinks  that  time  has  made ! 
Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become, 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new." 

Denham  and  Cleveland  both  belong  to  this  period. 
Denham's  *'  Cooper's  Hill"  is  his  principal  poem,  and  the 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  AND  EESTORATION.      165 

one  on  which  his  fame  rests.  Craik  considers  it  the  best 
classical  poem  produced  down  to  his  date.  Denham's 
shorter  pieces  are  spirited,  especially  some  of  his  songs. 
He  died  in  1668,  at  the  age  of  fifty-three.  Every  critic, 
from  Dry  den  to  our  own  time,  has  praised  the  four  con- 
cluding lines  in  his  address  to  the  Thames  from  his 
''Cooper's  Hill":  — 

"  0  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme  ! 
Though  deep,  yet  clear,  though  gentle,  yet  not  dull, 
Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full." 

John  Cleveland,  though  the  most  neglected  of  all  his 
cotemporaries,  was  the  most  popular  verse-writer  of  his 
day,  and  for  twenty  j-ears,  was,  it  is  said,  held  to  be  the 
greatest  among  living  English  poets  (  !). 

Cleveland's  poems  have  vivacity  and  sprightliness,  and 
it  has  been  remarked  that  they  seem  to  have  been  thrown 
off  in  haste,  and  never  to  have  been  afterward  corrected  or 
revised. 

Cleveland  was  a  Cavalier  poet,  and  by  his  satire  and 
invective  —  sometimes  more  furious  than  forcible  —  is  al- 
lowed to  have  done  the  heartiest  and  stoutest  service  to 
the  cause.  He  was  the  first  writer  who  came  forth  as 
champion  of  the  royal  cause  in  English  verse ;  to  that 
cause  he  adhered  till  its  ruin.  At  last,  in  1655,  after  hav- 
ing led  for  some  years  a  fugitive  life,  he  was  caught  and 
thrown  into  prison.  Cromwell  on  his  petition  allowed  him 
to  go  at  large.  He  did  not  long  survive  his  release,  but 
died  in  April,  1658,  a  few  months  before  the  Protector 
whose  hated  dominion  had  been  so  fatal  to  his  fortunes. 
As  he  is  a  poet  but  little  quoted,  this  epitaph  on  Ben 
Jonson,  which  is  a  fine  specimen  of  exaggerated  praise, 
may  be  of  interest.  It  is  the  most  concise  and  the  best 
of  several  tributes  to  the  memory  of  the  poet. 


166  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  The  Muses'  fairest  light,  in  no  dark  time ; 
The  wonder  of  a  learned  age  ;  the  line 
"Which  none  can  pass ;  the  most  proportioned  wit 
To  nature  ;  the  best  judge  of  what  was  fit ; 
The  deepest,  plainest,  highest,  clearest  pen ; 
The  voice  most  echoed  by  consenting  men  ; 
The  soul  which  answered  best  to  all  well  said 
By  others,  and  which  most  requital  made ; 
Tuned  to  the  highest  key  of  ancient  Rome, 
Returning  all  her  music  with  his  own ; 
In  whom  with  Nature  Study  claimed  a  part. 
Yet  who  unto  himself  owed  all  his  art ; 
Here  lies  Ben  Jonson  ;  every  age  will  look 
With  sorrow  here,  with  wonder  on  his  book." 

To  this  period  belongs  Samuel  Butler,  the  author  of 
*'Hudibras,"  born  in  1612.  His  father  was  but  an  Eng- 
lish yeoman  of  limited  circumstances  ;  yet  the  poet,  who  is 
said  to  have  embraced  with  great  eagerness  every  oppor- 
tunity of  intellectual  improvement,  has  given  us  a  satire 
that  for  felicitous  versification  and  sustained,  intense  wit 
has  never  been  excelled  in  our  literature. 

Great  obscurity  rests  on  all  parts  of  Butler's  life,  at 
different  periods  of  which  he  seems  to  have  been  clerk, 
amanuensis,  and  tutor.  At  the  Restoration  he  was  made 
steward  of  Ludlow  Castle  ;  and  in  1663  appeared  the  first 
part  of  "  Hudibras."  A  second  part  appeared  in  1664,  and 
a  third  fourteen  years  later.  The  latter  part  of  his  life  is 
said  to  have  been  spent  in  struggling  circumstances  in 
London  ;  and  though  the  poet  and  his  work  were  the  praise 
of  all  ranks,  from  royalty  downward,  he  was  himself  lit- 
tle benefited  by  it;  and  when  the  king  at  last  ordered 
him  a  present  of  three  thousand  pounds,  it  was  insuflScient 
to  discharge  the  debts  pressing  upon  him  at  the  time.  He 
died  in  1680,  in  a  mean  street  near  Covent  Garden,  and 
was  buried  at  the  expense  of  a  friend. 

"  Hudibras  "  is  a  Cavalier  burlesque  of  the  ideas  and 


THE   COMMONWEALTH  AND  RESTORATION.      167 

manners  of  the  English  Puritans.  The  original  idea  of 
the  poem  is  to  be  found  in  Cervantes's  "  History  of  Don 
Quixote,"  —  "a  t)Ook,"  observes  Dr.  Johnson,  "to  which 
a  mind  of  the  greatest  powers  may  be  indebted  without 
disgrace."  Hudibras  is  a  Presbyterian  justice  who  ranges 
the  country  to  suppress  superstition  and  correct  abuses, 
accompanied  by  an  Independent  clerk,  disputatious  and 
obstinate,  with  whom  he  debates,  but  never  conquers  him. 
Butler  has  more  wit  than  au3^  writer  in  the  English 
language,  in  which  "Hudibras"  has  been  pronounced 
the  best  satire.  Butler's  description  of  the  religion  of 
Hudibras  is  a  fair  specimen  of  his  satire :  — 

**  For  his  religion,  it  was  fit  l 

To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit. 
'T  was  Presbyterian  true-blue ; 
For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  church  militant ; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun ; 
Decide  all  controversy  by 
Infallible  artillery ; 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks  ; 
Call  fire,  and  sword,  and  desolation, 
A  godly  thorough  reformation. 
Which  always  must  be  carried  on, 
And  still  be  doing,  never  done 
As  if  religion  were  intended 
For  nothiucr  else  but  to  be  mended. 


Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to, 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to. 

Rather  than  fail,  they  will  defy 
That  which  they  love  most  tenderly  ; 
Quarrel  with  minced  pies,  and  disparage 
Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum-porridge." 


168  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


1 


Andrew  Marvell,  who  was  born  1620,  and  died  1678, 
was  associated  with  Milton  in  friendship  and  pubUc  ser- 
vice. He  is  best  known  as  a  prose-writer,  and  his  poet- 
ical genius  has  not  had  its  merited  share  of  notice  and 
praise.  For  elegance  and  gay  extravagance,  his  "  Coy 
Mistress  "  has  never  been  excelled. 

"  Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time 
This  coyness,  lady,  were  no  crime. 
We  would  sit  down  and  think  which  way 
To  walk  and  pass  our  love's  long  day. 
Thou  by  the  Indian  Ganges'  side 
Should'st  rubies  find  :  I  by  the  tide 
Of  Humber  would  complain.     I  would 
Love  you  ten  years  before  the  flood 
And  you  should,  if  you  please,  refuse 
Till  the  conversion  of  the  Jews. 

**  My  vegetable  love  should  grow 
Vaster  than  empires,  and  more  slow. 
An  hundred  years  should  go 
To  praise  thine  eyes,  and  on  thy  forehead  gaze ; 
Two  hundred  to  adore  thy  breast ; 
But  thirty  thousand  to  the  rest : 
An  age  at  least  to  every  part ; 
And  the  last  age  should  show  your  heart. 
For,  lady,  you  deserve  this  state  ; 
Nor  would  I  love  at  lower  rate." 

The  other  minor  and  less  distinguished  poets  of  this 
date  are  Sedley,  Roscommon,  Dorset,  Cotton,  Davenant, 
and  Philips,  none  of  whom  are  now  widely  known  or  read, 
though  they  still  appear  in  rank  and  file  among  the  Eng- 
lish poets. 

Roscommon's  highest  praise  is  to  have  been  cele- 
brated by  Pope  as  the  only  moral  writer  of  verse  in 
King  Charles's  reign. 

Among  the  English  poets  of  that  school  in  which  the 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  AND  RESTORATION.      169 

ineniorj,  the  judgment,  and  the  wit  are  more  conspicuous 
than  the  imagination,  Abraham  Cowley,  born  in  London 
in  the  year  1618,  was  one  of  the  most  popular  of  his 
time. 

Cowle}^  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  grocer  ;  his  mother's 
exertions  procured  him  a  liberal  education.  When  Oxford 
was  surrendered  to  Parliament,  he  followed  the  Queen- 
Mother  to  France,  where  he  remained  twelve  years,  and 
was  employed  in  such  correspondence  as  the  royal  cause 
required,  and  particularly  in  ciphering  and  deciphering  the 
letters  that  passed  between  Charles  and  his  queen,  —  an 
employment  of  the  highest  confidence  and  honor,  that  for 
several  years  is  said  to  have  filled  all  his  days,  and  two  or 
three  nights  in  each  week. 

At  the  Restoration,  Cowley  expected  some  royal  ap- 
pointment as  the  reward  of  his  loyalty  ;  but  his  claims 
were  overlooked.  In  some  of  his  youthful  writings  he  had 
not  sufficiently  bowed  down  before  the  golden  image  of 
monarchy  ;  and  this  was  now  recalled  at  court  to  his  disad- 
vantage, and  his  hopes  ended  in  disappointment.  He  had 
passed  his  fortieth  year  when  he  gladly  retired  from  the 
world,  and  with  a  royal  provision  of  three  hundred  pounds 
per  annum,  settled  at  Chertse}',  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames,  where  his  house  still  remains. 

Here,  renewing  his  acquaintance  with  the  beloved  poets 
of  antiquity,  he  commemorated  in  verse  the  charms  of  a 
country  life  and  composed  his  fine  prose  discourses.  The 
happiness  he  sought  in  this  retirement  seems  to  have 
eluded  his  grasp.  Dr.  Johnson,  who  would,  it  is  said, 
have  preferred  Fleet  Street  to  all  the  charms  of  Arcadia 
and  the  Golden  Age,  dwells  with  grim  satisfaction  upon 
Cowle3^*s  falling  out  with  retirement,  and  holds  him  up 
as  an  awful  warning  to  all  who  may  dare  pant  for 
solitude. 


170  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


ears  1| 


He  died  on  the  28th  of  July,  1667,  about  seven  } 
after  his  retirement  from  court  and  the  world.  He  was 
interred  with  great  pomp  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and 
*' the  King  himself,"  observes  Sprat,  ''was  pleased  to 
bestow  on  him  the  best  epitaph  when  he  declared  that  Mr. 
Cowley  had  not  left  '  a  better  man  behind  him.'  " 

Cowley  is  said  to  have  lisped  in  numbers ;  in  his  tenth 
year  he  wrote  the  "Tragical  History  of  Pyramus  and 
Thisbe,"  published  in  his  "Poetic  Blossoms."  He 
wrote  the  four  books  of  his  unfinished  poem,  entitled 
"  Davideis,"  —  a  heroical  poem  of  the  troubles  of  David,  — 
while  a  student  at  Trinity  College.  His  "  Miscellanies," 
his  "  Mistress,  or,  Love  Verses,"  and  his  "  Pindaric 
Odes,"  complete  the  list  of  his  poetical  compositions. 

Cowley's  "Mistress,"  though  in  imitation  of  Petrarch, 
is  without  passion  or  real  tenderness,  and  was  conceived 
in  this  wise:  "Poets,"  he  sa^'s,  "are  scarce  thought 
freemen  of  their  company,  without  paying  some  duties, 
and  obliging  themselves  to  be  true  to  love."  Whereupon 
he  obligingly  sets  himself  to  the  wooing  of  an  imaginary 
mistress,  and  amiably  counterfeits  that  passion  of  whose 
power  he  must  have  been  shockingly  ignorant,  as  it  is 
positively  asserted  that  he  was  never  in  love  but  once, 
and  then  never  found  courage  to  declare  himself! 

Cowley's  wit,  accomplishments,  and  amiabiHt\'  rendered 
him  exceedingly  popular.  He  has  great  sense,  ingenuitj', 
and  learning ;  but  as  a  poet  his  fancy  is  far-fetched  and 
mechanical.  He  was,  in  his  own  time,  considered  as  of 
unrivalled  excellence ;  and  some  of  his  cotemporaries 
have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  prophesy  that  posterit}'  would 
hold  him  to  have  been  equalled  by  Virgil  alone  among 
the  poets  of  antiquit3\ 

His  "Pindaric  Odes,"  though  deformed  by  conceits, 
contain  some  noble  lines. 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  AND  RESTORATION.      171 

His  "Anacreons,"  which  are  thought  to  be  the  happiest 
of  his  poems,  abound  in  images  of  natural  and  poetic 
beauty ;  this,  entitled  "  Drinking,"  is  worthy  of  Bacchus 

himself:  — 

"  The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 
And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again. 
The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and  fair. 
The  sea  itself,  whicli  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink. 
Drinks  ten  thousand  rivers  up, 
So  filled  that  they  o'erflow  the  cup. 
The  busy  sun  (and  one  would  guess 
By  's  drunken  fiery  face  no  less) 
Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he  has  done. 
The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun. 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light ; 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 
Nothing  in  Nature 's  sober  found. 
But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 
Fill  up  the  bowl,  then,  fill  it  high, 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there,  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I, 
Why,  men  of  morals,  tell  me  why  ?  ** 

John  Dryden,  one  of  the  great  masters  of  English  verse, 
and  who  may  be  regarded  as  founder  of  the  school  of  criti- 
cal poets,  was  born  in  August,  1631.  His  father  was  a 
strict  Puritan,  of  an  ancient  family,  long  established  in 
Northamptonshire.  Drj^den  was  the  eldest  of  fourteen 
children,  and  received  a  good  education,  first  at  Westmin- 
ster, and  afterward  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

The  first  poetical  production  of  Dryden  was  a  set  of 
heroic  stanzas  on  the  death  of  Cromwell.  When  Charles 
was  restored,  he  had  done  with  the  Puritans,  and  wrote 
poetical  addresses  to  the  King  and  Lord  Chancellor. 

In  1663  he  married  the  Lady  Elizabeth  Howard,  daugh- 
ter of  the  Earl  of  Berkshire.    This  match  added  neither 


172       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

to  his  wealth  nor  his  happiness  ;  and  when  his  wife  wished 
to  be  a  book  that  she  might  enjoy  more  of  his  company, 
Dryden  is  said  to  have  replied,  "Be  an  almanac,  my  dear, 
that  I  may  change  jou  once  a  year." 

In  1667  he  published  a  long  poem,  "  Annus  Mirabilis," 
being  an  account  of  the  events  of  the  3'ear  1666.  The 
amusements  of  the  drama  revived  after  the  Restoration ; 
and  Dryden  became  a  candidate  for  theatrical  laurels. 

Charles  II.  returned  from  his  long  exile  in  France  with 
the  political  maxims  and  social  habits  of  his  favorite  peo- 
ple ;  and  it  was  to  please  this  ignoble  monarch,  of  whom 
it  has  been  said  that  "  politeness  was  his  solitary  good 
quality,"  that  a  mortal  blow  was  first  dealt  to  the  English 
drama  by  introducing  into  it  rhyming  plays.  Charles 
having  adopted  the  French  taste  in  composition,  the  good 
old  dramas  of  Elizabeth  and  James  were  banished  from 
the  stage  for  the  degenerate,  fashionable  rh3'ming  plays 
of  France,  in  which  conjugal  fidelity  and  sincerity  were 
held  up  for  constant  ridicule ;  till  the  corruptions  of  the 
stage  became  so  notorious  that  "  a  grave  law^-er,"  it  is 
said,  "  would  have  debased  his  dignity,  and  a  young  trader 
would  have  impaired  his  credit,  by  appearing  in  those 
mansions  of  dissolute  licentiousness  that  were  the  proper 
element  for  a  depraved  king  and  a  corrupt  court." 

Dryden  unhappily  became  a  panderer  to  this  vitiated 
taste,  and  was  the  most  eminent  among  the  crowd  of 
authors  who  courted  notoriety  and  won  royal  patronage, 
by  adopting  the  bombast  and  meanness  of  the  new  style. 
Thus  while  Milton,  in  blindness  and  poverty,  kept  his 
pure  and  lofty  muse  unspotted  from  the  world,  the  off"- 
spring  of  Dryden's  genius  "passed  through  the  fire  to 
Moloch  ;  "  and  to  his  everlasting  shame,  he  produced  those 
comedies  which,  as  Macaulay  aptly  sa^^s,  "  introduce  us 
into  a  world  where  there  is  no  humanity,  no  veracity,  no 


THE   COMMONWEALTH  AND  RESTORATION.     173 

sense  of  shame,  —  a  world  for  which  any  good-natured 
man  w^ould  gladlj^  exchange  the  society  of  Milton's  devils  ; 
and  the  tragedies  that  introduce  us  to  people  whose  pro- 
ceedings we  can  trace  to  no  motives  ;  of  whose  feelings  we 
can  form  no  more  idea  than  of  a  sixth  sense." 

Of  Dr^'den's  plays,  nearl}'  thirty  in  number,  few  have 
much  merit  considered  as  entire  works,  although  there  are 
brilliant  scenes  and  spirited  passages  in  most  of  them. 
He  was  an  incomparable  reasoner  in  verse,  and  the  discus- 
sions between  his  heroes  are  considered  by  critics  his  best 
scenes.  He  undertook  to  write  for  the  king's  players  no 
less  than  three  plays  a  year,  for  which  he  was  to  receive 
three  hundred  pounds  per  annum.  He  was  afterward 
made  poet  laureate  and  royal  historiographer  with  a  salary 
of  two  hundred  pounds. 

In  Dry  den's  plays,  debased  though  they  may  be,  there 
may  be  found  occasional  true  sentiment,  and  now  and  then 
a  fine  simile  relieves  the  huge  mass  of  turgid  dramatic 
verse.     A  few  of  these  I  subjoin :  — 

Love  is  that  madness  which  all  lovers  have ; 
But  yet 't  is  sweet  and  pleasing  so  to  rave. 
'T  is  an  enchantment,  where  the  reason  's  bound, 
But  Paradise  is  in  the  enchanted  ground. 

Conquest  of  Granada. 

Man  is  but  man  ;  nnconstant  still,  and  various ; 

There 's  no  to-morrow  in  him  like  to-day. 

Perhaps  the  atoms  rolling  in  his  brain 

Make  him  think  honestly  this  present  hour ; 

The  next,  a  swarm  of  base  ungrateful  thoughts 

May  mount  aloft;  and  where 's  our  Egypt  then ? 

Who  would  trust  chance  'i    Since  all  men  have  the  seeds 

Of  good  and  ill,  which  should  work  upward  first. 

Cleomenes. 
Courage  uncertain  dangers  may  abate, 
But  who  can  bear  the  approach  of  certain  fate  ? 

Tyrannic  Love. 


174       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Men  are  but  children  of  a  larger  growth. 

All  for  Love* 

That  friendship  which  from  withered  love  doth  shoot. 

Like  the  faint  herbage  on  a  rock,  wants  root. 

Love  is  a  tender  amity,  refined : 

Grafted  on  friendship,  it  exalts  the  mind  ; 

But  when  the  graff  no  longer  does  remain, 

The  dull  stock  lives,  but  never  bears  again. 

Conquest  of  Granada. 

Wordsworth  found  one  of  Dryden's  highly  celebrated  dra- 
matic "  gems  "  (a  description  of  Nature,  in  the  "  Indian  Em- 
peror") *' vague,  bombastic,  and  senseless."  Its  charm 
undoubtedly  consisted  in  its  melod3\ 

In  1681  Dryden  published  his  ''Absalom  and  Achito- 
phel,"- — a  bold  political  satire,  allowed  to  be  the  *'  most 
vigorous  and  elastic,  the  most  highly  varied  and  beautiful, 
which  the  English  language  can  boast."  Its  popularity 
placed  the  author  above  all  his  poetical  cotemporaries. 
It  was  followed  by  two  other  equally  vigorous  satires,  — 
''The  Medal"  and  "Mac  Flecknoe."  In  his  satires 
Dryden  drew  from  the  life,  and  produced  matchless  por- 
traits. After  the  accession  of  James,  the  poet  declared 
himself  a  convert  to  popery.  His  change  of  creed,  hap- 
pening at  a  time  when  it  suited  his  interests  to  become  a 
Catholic,  was  looked  upon  with  suspicion ;  but  it  has  been 
proved  that  his  conduct  was  not  fairly  open  to  the  charge 
of  unprincipled  selfishness.  He  brought  up  his  family 
and  died  in  his  new  belief,  the  first  published  fruit  of 
which  was  his  allegorical  poem  of  "  The  Hind  and  Pan- 
ther." The  Church  of  Rome  is  the  Hind,  the  Church  of 
England  the  Panther ;  the  other  sects  are  represented  as 
bears,  hares,  boars,  etc.,  and  the  Calvinist  as  a  famished 

wolf— 

"...  His  rough  crest  rears, 
And  pricks  up  his  predestinating  ears." 


THE   COMMONWEALTH  AND  RESTORATION.      175 

The  revolution  in  1668  deprived  Dryden  of  tlie  income 
derived  from  his  office  of  laureate  ;  and  stimulated  by  the 
want  of  an  independent  income,  he  produced  in  the  latter 
3'ears  of  his  life  the  noblest  of  his  works.  The  '*  Ode  to 
St.  Cecilia  "  (supposed  to  be  the  inventress  of  the  organ) , 
commonly  called  "  Alexander's  Feast,"  was  his  next  work, 
and  is  the  loftiest  and  most  imaginative  of  all  his  compo- 
sitions. This  immortal  poem,  though  superseded  in  our 
recitation-books  b^'  poorer  pieces,  is  the  most  superb 
example  of  splendid  versification  that  our  language  af- 
fords. It  is  too  long  to  be  given  entire  ;  but  a  stanza  or 
two  may  convey  to  those  who  do  not  familiarly  know  it 
an  idea  of  its  exquisite  rhythmical  flow :  — 

"  'T  was  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne ; 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  orows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound: 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned). 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree : 
'T  was  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet  in  Lydian  measures. 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures; 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Honour  but  an  empty  bubble ; 
Never  ending,  still  beginning, 


176  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying ; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying  : 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee : 

Thus  long  ago 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store. 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down." 

In  his  sixtj^-eighth  year  Dryden  published  his  "  Fables, 
—  imitations  of  Boccaccio  and  Chaucer,  —  affording  the 
finest  specimens  of  his  happy  versification.  It  has  been 
happily  observed  that  ''  they  shed  a  glory  on  the  last 
days  of  the  poet,  when  his  fancy,  brighter  and  more 
.prolific  than  ever,  may  be  compared  to  a  noble  river,  that 
expands  in  breadth,  and  fertilizes  a  wider  tract  of  countr}' 
ere  it  is  finally  engulfed  in  the  ocean."  He  died  on  the 
1st  of  May,  1700.  His  remains,  after  being  embalmed, 
and  lying  in  state  twelve  days,  were  interred  with  great 
pomp  in  Westminster  Abbe}'. 

Dr^^den's  genius  was  debased  by  the  false  taste  of  the 
age ;  his  moral  nature  —  not  of  the  higher  t3'pe  organic- 
ally —  was  vitiated  bj^  the  bad  morals  of  a  corrupt  court, 
and  he  was  innately  deficient  in  the  higher  emotions  of 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  AND   RESTORATION.     177 

love  and  tenderness.  Critics  have  allowed  him  inven- 
tion, fancy,  wit,  no  humor,  immense  strength  of  character, 
elegance,  masterly  ease,  indignant  contempt  approaching 
to  the  sublime,  no  tenderness,  but  eloquent  declamation 
and  the  perfection  of  uncorrupted  English  style  and  of 
sounding,  vehement,  varied  versification.  Pope  thus 
praises  his  admirable  versification  :  — 

"  Waller  was  smooth  ;  but  Dryden  taught  to  join 
The  varying  verse,  the  full-resounding  line, 
The  long  majestic  march,  and  energy  divine." 

''Perhaps  no  nation,"  sa^'s  Dr.  Johnson,  ''ever  pro- 
duced a  writer  that  enriched  his  language  with  such  a 
variety  of  models  ;  to  him  we  owe  the  improvement  of  our 
metre,  the  refinement  of  our  language,  and  what  was 
said  of  Rome  adorned  by  Augustus  may  be  applied  to 
English  poetry  embellished  by  Dryden,  —  he  found  it 
brick  and  he  left  it  marble." 

Though  habituallj'  a  careless  writer,  and  constitution- 
ally averse  to  labor,  Dryden  is  said  to  have  spent  a 
fortnight  in  perfecting  his  masterpiece,  the  "  Ode  to  St. 
Cecilia."  Warton  gives  us  this  account  of  the  occasion 
and  manner  of  his  writing  it :  — 

"  Lord  Bolingbroke,  happening  to  pay  a  visit  to  Dryden, 
found  him  in  an  unusual  agitation  of  spirits,  even  to  trembling. 
On  inquiring  the  cause,  '  I  have  been  up  all  night,'  replied  the 
old  bard  ;  '  my  musical  friends  made  me  promise  to  write  them 
an  ode  for  their  feast  of  St.  Cecilia.  I  have  been  so  struck  with 
the  subject  which  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  not  leave  it  till  I 
had  completed  it  ;  here  it  is,  finished  at  one  sitting.'  And  im- 
mediately he  showed  him  the  ode  which  places  the  British 
lyi'ic  poetry  above  that  of  any  other  nation.'* 

In  the  drama  Dr3'den  was  completely  out  of  his  ele- 
ment.    With  all  his  command  of  language,  information, 

12 


178  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

and  imagery,  he  had  not  art  or  judgment  to  construct  an 
interesting  or  consistent  drama,  or  to  preserve  himself 
from  extravagance  and  absurdity.  A  pure  and  lofty  ideal 
of  womanhood  seems  to  have  been  entirely  beyond  his 
reach.  Of  the  softer  passions  he  could  form  no  concep- 
tion. His  love  degenerates  into  licentiousness,  his  tender- 
ness into  rant  and  fustian  ;  and  it  has  been  observed  that 
"  like  Voltaire,  he  probably  never  drew  a  tear  from  reader 
or  spectator."  The  staple  materials  of  his  tragedy  are  the 
bowl  and  dagger,  glory,  ambition,  lust,  and  crime.  It 
has  little  truth  of  coloring,  or  natural  passion  ;  its  char- 
acters are  for  the  most  part  personages  in  high  life,  of 
transcendent  virtue,  vice,  or  ambition.  It  is  crowded 
with  fierce  passion,  with  splendid  processions,  with  super- 
human love  and  beautj-,  and  with  long  dialogues  alter- 
nately formed  of  metaphysical  subtlety  and  the  most 
extravagant  and  bombastic  expression.  His  comedy  ex- 
hibits a  variety  of  constantly  shifting  scenes  and  adven- 
tures, complicated  intrigues,  and  successful  disguises ;  is 
false  to  nature,  improbable  and  ill-arranged,  and  equally 
offensive  to  taste  and  morality. 

The  merit  of  Dryden's  drama  consists  in  a  wild  Oriental 
magnificence  of  st3'le,  in  the  richness  of  his  versification, 
and  occasional  gleams  of  true  genius.  ''  Don  Sebastian" 
is  considered  his  highest  eflfort  in  dramatic  composition. 
His  "  All  for  Love,"  founded  on  the  story  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  and  avowedly  written  in  imitation  of  Shake- 
speare, is  the  only  play  Dr3'den  ever  wrote  for  himself; 
''  the  rest,"  he  says,  *'  were  given  to  the  people."  The 
scene  between  Antony  and  his  general  he  is  said  to  have 
preferred  to  anything  which  he  had  written  of  that  kind. 
It  is  thought  to  contain  passages  that  challenge  com- 
parison with  Shakespeare.  It  will  only  be  necessar}-  to 
compare  Dryden's  conception  of  the  noble  Roman  with 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  AND  EESTORATION.     179 

that  of  Shakespeare  to  prove  that  he  cannot  even  graze 
in  his  loftiest  flights  the  heights  where  Avon's  bard  *'  sits 
throned  and  serene  !  " 

After  Dryden  the  most  eminent  dramatic  writers  of  this 
era  are  Otway,  Lee,  Crowne,  and  Shadwell.  Lee  is 
characterized  by  tenderness,  fire,  and  imagination.  Crowne 
in  some  of  his  productions  is  eminent  for  poetry,  and  in 
others  for  plot  and  character.  Otway 's  dramas,  though 
rugged  and  irregular  in  versification,  far  excel  those  of 
Dryden  in  propriety  of  style  and  character. 

Otway  was  born  at  Trotting  in  Sussex,  March  3,  1651. 
Educated  at  Oxford,  he  left  college  without  taking  his 
degree.  He  afterward  appeared  as  an  unsuccessful  actor, 
then  as  a  playwright,  and  subsequently  as  a  military  char- 
acter in  Flanders  ;  there  he  was  cashiered  for  irregularities, 
and  returning  to  England,  resumed  writing  for  the  stage. 
His  short  and  eventful  life,  checkered  by  want  and  ex- 
travagance, was  closed  prematurely  in  1685.  One  of  his 
biographers  relates  that  he  came  to  his  death  b}^  too 
hastily  swallowing,  after  a  long  fast,  a  piece  of  bread 
which  charity  had  supplied.  Whatever  may  have  been 
the  immediate  cause  of  his  death,  he  is  known  to  have 
been  at  the  time  in  circumstances  of  great  povert3\ 

Otway  excels  in  his  delineation  of  the  passions  of  the 
heart,  the  ardor  of  love,  and  the  excess  of  miserj^  and 
despair.  His  fame  now  rests  upon  his  two  tragedies, 
*'The  Orphan,"  and  "Venice  Preserved;"  but  on  these 
it  has  been  aptl}^  remarked  that  ''  it  rests  as  on  the 
Pillars  of  Hercules."  The  plot  of  the  ''  Orphan,"  from 
its  inherent  indelicacy  and  painful  associations,  has  driven 
this  play  from  the  stage  ;  but  ''  Venice  Preserved  "  is  still 
deservedly  popular. 

Otway's  power  in  scenes  of  passionate  affection  was 
thought  by  Walter  Scott  to  rival  and  sometimes   excel 


180       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


Shakespeare's ;  and  in  his  excessive  praise  of  this  dram 
atist  he  has  said,  "More  tears  have  been  shed,  probably, 
for  the  sorrows  of  Belvidera  and  Monimia  than  for  those 
of  Juliet  and  Desdemona."  This  passage  from  '*  Venice 
Preserved  "  is  a  sample  of  Otwaj-'s  tender  pathos :  — 

Jaf.  O  Belvidera !  doubly  I  'm  a  beggar : 
Undone  by  fortune,  and  in  debt  to  thee. 
Want,  worldly  want,  that  hungry  meagre  fiend, 
Is  at  my  heels,  and  chases  me  in  view. 
Canst  thou  bear  cold  and  hunger  ? 

Bel.  Oh !  I  will  love  thee,  even  in  madness  love  thee ! 
Though  my  distracted  senses  should  forsake  me 
I  'd  find  some  intervals  when  my  poor  heart 
Should  'suage  itself,  and  be  let  loose  to  thine : 
Though  the  bare  earth  be  all  our  resting-place, 
Its  roots  our  food,  some  cliff  our  habitation, 
I  '11  make  this  arm  a  pillow  for  thine  head  ; 
And  as  thou  sighing  liest,  and  swelled  with  sorrow, 
Creep  to  thy  bosom,  pour  the  balm  of  love 
Into  thy  soul,  and  kiss  thee  to  thy  rest ; 
Then  praise  our  God,  and  watch  thee  till  the  morning. 

Jaf.  Hear  this,  you  Heavens,  and  wonder  how  you  made  her ! 
Reign,  reign,  ye  monarchs,  that  divide  the  world ; 
Busy  rebellion  ne'er  will  let  you  know 
Tranquillity  and  happiness  like  mine ; 
Like  gaudy  ships,  the  obsequious  billows  fall, 
And  rise  again,  to  lift  you  in  your  pride : 
They  wait  but  for  a  storm,  and  then  devour  you ! 
I,  in  my  private  bark  already  wrecked, 
Like  a  poor  merchant,  driven  to  unknown  land, 
That  had,  by  chance,  packed  up  his  choicest  treasure 
In  one  dear  casket,  and  saved  only  that : 
Since  I  must  wander  farther  on  the  shore, 
Thus  hug  my  little,  but  my  precious  store, 
Resolved  to  scorn  and  trust  my  fate  no  more. 


? 


MILTON.  181 


CHAPTER  X. 

MILTON. 

ABOVE  all  the  poets  of  his  age  in  genius  and  purity 
of  life  and  purpose,  and  in  the  whole  range  of  Eng- 
lish poetry  inferior  only  to  Shakespeare  in  rank,  was  John 
Milton,  born  in  London,  Dec.  9,  1608.  His  father  was 
of  an  ancient  Roman  Catholic  family.  Embracing  the 
Protestant  faith,  he  was  disinherited,  and  as  a  means  of 
support,  followed  the  profession  of  a  scriviener,  and  was 
also  distinguished  as  a  musical  composer. 

Milton  has  been  called  "  a  musical  poet,"  and  no  doubt 
he  inherited  his  father's  harmonical  genius.  The  poet  was 
carefully  educated  at  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  and  was 
designed  for  the  Church;  but  "  den3'ing  the  power  arro- 
gated by  councils  and  bishops,"  he  preferred,  as  he  tells 
us,  ''a  blameless  life  to  servitude  and  forswearing." 

In  1632  Milton  took  his  degree  of  M.  A.  and  retired 
from  the  university  to  his  father's  countr3'-house,  where  he 
spent  five  years  in  studying  classic  literature.  Leaving 
England  in  1638,  he  travelled  fifteen  months  in  France 
and  Italy.  The  Civil  War  hastened  his  return  to  his 
native  land,  where  he  nobly  engaged  against  the  prelates 
and  Roj'alists,  and  wrote  his  pamphlets  against  the  Es- 
tablished Episcopal  Church,  continuing  through  the  whole 
period  of  those  troublous  times  to  devote  his  pen  to  the 
service  of  liberty  and  truth,  defending  the  boldest  meas- 
ures of  his  party,  even  to  the  execution  of  the  King.     In 


182  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

these  essay's,  some  of  which,  that  they  might  be  read  in 
foreign  countries,  are  written  in  Latin,  Milton  displays  his 
unbounded  love  of  liberty  and  his  strong  inflexible  prin- 
ciples, both  in  regard  to  religion  and  civil  government. 
Macaulay  has  observed  that  "  as  compositions  they  de- 
serve the  attention  of  every  man  who  wishes  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  full  power  of  the  English  language." 
The  poet  must  have  been  about  thirty  when,  having  found 
it  necessar}^  to  increase  his  income,  he  received  into  his 
house  a  few  pupils,  who  appear  to  have  been  sons  of  his 
relatives  and  intimate  friends,  and  "  proceeded  with  cheer- 
ful alacrity  in  the  noblest  of  all  employments,  that  of 
training  up  immortal  souls  in  wisdom  and  virtue."  Milton 
taught  Latin,  Greek,  French,  Italian,  the  chief  Oriental 
tongues,  mathematics,  and  astronom3\ 

Dr.  Johnson  has  been  pleased  to  scoflT  at  Milton  as  a 
school-master ;  but  one  of  his  scholars  thus  bears  testimony 
to  his  capacity  and  fidelity  as  a  teacher.  ''  If  his  pupils," 
he  sa3's,  "  had  received  his  documents  with  the  same 
acuteness  of  wit  and  apprehension,  the  same  industry  and 
alacrity  and  thirst  after  knowledge  as  the  instructor  was 
endowed  with,  what  prodigies  of  wit  and  learning  might 
the}'  have  proved  !  " 

In  1649  the  poet  was,  without  solicitation,  appointed 
foreign  or  Latin  secretary  to  the  Council  of  State.  For 
ten  years  his  eyesight  had  been  failing,  owing  to  the 
wearisome  studies  and  midnight  watchings  of  his  3'outh, 
and  by  the  close  of  the  year  1652  he  was  totally  blind. 
Bj'  the  Restoration  Milton  was  deprived  of  his  public  em- 
ployment. In  1643  he  married  his  first  wife,  Mary 
Powell.  Her  voluntary  desertion  of  her  husband,  his  re- 
solve to  repudiate  her,  —  which  led  to  his  treatises  on 
divorce,  —  and  their  subsequent  reconciliation  are  well 
known.     Our    satisfaction   in    the    perfecting   of    "  the 


MILTON.  183 

patience  of  the  saints  "  alone  reconciles  us  to  the  fact  that 
this  woman  embittered  Milton's  life  more  than  fifteen 
long  years.  Graciouslj^  released  from  her  by  death,  he 
married  soon  after  his  second  and  most  beloved  wife, 
Katharine  Woodcock,  who  died  within  a  3'ear  after  their 
marriage.  By  his  first  marriage  Milton  had  three 
daughters.  When  the  youngest  was  about  fifteen,  he 
married  his  third  wife,  Elizabeth  Minshul,  a  gentlewoman 
"  of  twenty-four,  without  pretensions  of  an^'  kind,  who 
willingly  gave  her  life  to  cheer  his  blind  and  helpless 
3-ears ;  "  yet  to  her  tender  reverence  for  his  studious 
habits,  and  the  peace  and  comfort  she  shed  over  his 
heart  and  home,  it  is  said  that  we  owe  the  "Paradise 
Lost."  Milton  had  attained  his  sixtj^-sixth  year  when,  his 
mind  calm  and  tranquil  to  the  last,  though  long  suffering 
acute  physical  pain,  he  passed  gently  from  earth. 

His  funeral  was  ''  honored  with  a  numerous  and  splendid 
attendance,"  and  he  was  buried  next  his  father,  in  the 
chancel  of  St.  Giles  at  Cripplegate.  There  is  supposed  to 
have  been  no  memorial  on  his  grave ;  his  memory  was, 
however,  honored  with  a  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey  in 
1737,  for  which  the  English  nation  may  take  to  itself  no 
credit,  as  it  was  erected  at  private  expense. 

Milton's  poverty  has  been  the  darling  theme  of  his . 
eulogists.  Even  Macaulaj^,  in  his  inimitable  essay  on  the 
poet,  cannot  refrain  from  making  capital  of  it.  Thus  he 
writes :  "  When  having  experienced  every  calamit}'  inci- 
dent to  our  nature,  old,  poor,  sightless,  and  disgraced,  he 
retired  to  his  hovel  to  die."  Milton's  '•'  hovel "  appears  to 
have  been  a  small  but  comfortable  house,  in  one  room  of 
which  (*'  hung  decently  with  rusty  green")  the  poet  is  de- 
scribed as  sitting,  not  on  a  three-legged  stool,  but  in  a 
commodious  armchair,  and  dressed  neatly  in  a  suit  of 
sober  black.     There  he  had  his  beloved  books  and   his 


184  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


organ;  there  received  his  friends  and  sometimes  "  distin- 
guished visitors,"  possessing  apparently  the  comforts  of 
life ;  and  philosopher  as  he  was,  we  can  imagine  that  he 
well  might  spare  its  luxuries.  Milton's  worldly  estate  has 
been  thus  fairly  estimated:  His  inheritance  from  his 
father  was  but  small,  and  in  the  Civil  War  he  lost  a  con- 
siderable sum  which  he  had  lent  to  Parliament.  As  Latin 
secretar}^  to  the  council  he  enjoyed,  while  without  an  asso- 
ciate in  the  oflSce,  the  annual  sum  of  nearly  three  hundred 
pounds,  —  a  sum  which  was  lowered  when  Philip  Meadows 
and  Andrew  Marvell  were  his  associate  secretaries.  He  is 
said  to  have  possessed  an  estate  also,  or  rather,  perhaps, 
an  allowance,  of  about  sixt}^  pounds  a  year  out  of  the  es- 
tates which  belonged  to  the  plundered  Abbey  of  Westmin- 
ster. As  it  was  common  during  the  usurpation  to  pension 
individuals  out  of  the  lands  of  deans,  chapters,  and  ecclesi- 
astics, this  would  seem  probable.  Of  these  revenues,  as  well 
as  of  two  thousand  pounds  which  he  had  placed  in  the  Ex- 
cise Office,  he  was  deprived  at  the  Restoration.  He  had  be- 
fore lost  two  thousand  pounds,  bj^  intrusting  the  sum  to  a 
scrivener ;  and  in  the  fire  of  London  his  house  in  Bread 
Street  was  burned.  All  these  losses  he  is  said  to  have  sus- 
tained '*  with  unabated  spirit;"  while  the  frugal  manage- 
ment of  what  he  retained,  enabled  him  to  live  without 
distress,  and  even  to  gratify  some  of  the  benevolent  im- 
pulses of  his  heart;  for  when  the  republican  party 
triamphed,  the  family  of  his  runaway  wife  —  who  were 
violent  Royalists  —  found  in  their  disgrace  and  destitution 
a  refuge  under  his  kindly  roof,  although  they  had  bitterly 
wronged  him  by  aiding  and  abetting  her  desertion  of  his 
home.  The  three  daughters  of  Mar}'  Powell  seem  to 
have  inherited  the  maternal  perversit}^,  as  Milton  com- 
plains of  their  undutifulness  and  unkindness ;  and  in  the 
latter  years  of  his  life  they  had  left  his  home. 


I 


MILTON.  185 

It  was  the  beautiful  theory  of  Plato  that  *'the  soul 
frames  her  house  in  which  she  will  be  placed,  fit  for  her- 
self; "  and  the  rare  elegance  of  Milton,  both  in  form  and 
face,  would  seem  to  prove  this  speculation  of  the  grand 
old  Greek.  A  portrait  of  the  poet  at  twentj^-one  is  still 
extant.  It  has  been  observed  that  there  could  scarcely  be 
a  finer  picture  of  pure,  ingenuous  English  youth  ;  "  and  in 
this  beautiful  and  well-proportioned  body,"  says  quaint 
Aubrey,  "there  lodged  a  harmonical  and  ingenuous 
soul." 

Milton's  deepest  fixed  idea  from  his  youth  upward  was 
that  of  the  necessity  of  moral  integrity  to  a  life  of  truly 
great  work  or  endeavor,  —  an  idea  which  in  one  of  his  pam- 
phlets he  thus  advances,  — 

"  The  art  of  Ovid  and  Horace  I  applauded,  but  the  men  I  de- 
plored; confirmed  in  this  opinion,  that  he  who  would  not  be 
frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable  things, 
ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem;  that  is,  a  composition  of  the 
best  and  honorablest  things,  not  presuming  to  sing  high  praises 
of  heroic  men  or  famous  cities,  unless  he  have  in  himself  the 
experience  of  all  that  is  praiseworthy." 

With  this  fine  ideal  Milton's  entire  life  harmonized. 
When  a  mere  lad  he  was  nicknamed  "  The  Lady  of  the 
College,"  from  his  aversion  to  coarse  mirth  and  riotous 
living.  At  that  time  he  carried  himself  with  such  proud 
dignity  and  high  resolve  that  mistaken  tutors,  unread  in 
that  lettering  imprinted  by  God  on  the  human  soul,  called 
him  self-willed  and  obstinate,  and  as  Johnson  tells  us, 
undertook  to  "  whip  it  out  of  him  !  "  As  a  graduate,  he  is 
still  intent  on  study,  and  keeps  a  five  years'  classic  holi- 
day at  his  father's  countrj'-seat  in  Horton,  wearing  out,  for 
the  sweet  sake  of  his  beloved  mistress,  —  Liearning,  — the 
bright  young  eyes  that  by  and  by  shall  no  more  behold  — 

"  Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  and  morn." 


186  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


Then  follow  eighteen  months  of  foreign  life,  and  while 
Italy  he  borrows  divine  conceptions  of  artistic  loveliness 
and  grace  to  be  moulded  hereafter  into  shapes  that  ''  not 
marble  shall  outlive."  At  Rome  he  listens  to  Leonora 
Baroni's  singing,  and  better  hereafter  conceives  that 
accord  of  the  — 

"  Seven-fold  chorus  of  hallelujahs 
And  harping  symphonies." 

In  the  Eternal  City  the  young  Englishman  receives  the 
admiration  of  scholars,  and  is  courted  by  poets  and  wits. 
The  Civil  War  calls  him  home,  and  like  a  true  patriot  he 
says,  *'  I  considered  it  disgraceful  that  while  m}^  fellow- 
countrymen  were  fighting  at  home  for  liberty  I  should 
be  travelling  abroad  at  ease  for  intellectual  purposes." 
Through  all  that  stormy  time  we  find  him  the  devoted 
literary  champion  of  infant  Liberty  in  England,  leaving 
in  his  arguments  and  appeals  that  rhythmical  prose  which 
is  one  of  posterity's  noble  inheritances.  Macaulay  has 
termed  it  "  a  perfect  field  of  cloth  of  gold,  stiff  with  gor- 
geous embroidery."  The  last  remains  of  his  eyesight, 
which  for  ten  years  had  been  failing,  were  cheerfully 
sacrificed  in  the  composition  of  his  ''  Defensio  Populi ;  " 
and  by  the  close  of  the  year  1652  Milton  was  totally  blind. 
The  sage  has  told  us  that  "  there  is  a  crack  in  everything 
that  God  has  made,"  and  doubtless  Milton's  character  had 
its  imperfections ;  but  of  all  our  great  poets  he  seems  to 
have  best  lived  according  to  the  standard  of  the  grand 

old  bards, — 

"  In  the  light  of  the  day, 
In  the  face  of  the  sun." 

Though  living  sagely,  soberly,  and  austerely,  like  the 
seers  and  anchorets  of  old,  he  lived  cheerfully ;  and  there 
was,  it  is  aflEirmed,  no  narrowness  in  his  views  of  what  it 
was  lawful  to  read  and  study,  or  even  to  see  and  expe- 


1 


MILTON.  187 

rience  ;  and  he  thought  himself  quite  at  liberty  to  indulge 
in  his  love  of  art  and  music  and  to  attend  theatrical 
performances. 

With  respect  to  the  extent  of  his  information,  it  has 
been  proved  that  the  poet  was  without  an  equal  in  the 
whole  university  ;  and  as  he  had  by  nature  an  intellect 
of  the  highest  power,  so  even  in  3'outh  he  jealously  as- 
serted his  supremacy-,  assuming  that  self-confident,  almost 
proud  demeanor  for  which  he  has  been  so  severely  cen- 
sured, though  it  was  essentially  an  element  of  his  nature. 
Critics  have  accorded  to  Milton  as  a  poet  sublimity  in  the 
highest  degree ;  beauty  in  an  equal  degree ;  pathos  in  a 
degree  next  to  the  highest ;  perfect  character  in  the  con- 
ception of  Satan,  Adam,  and  Eve  ;  fanc}^  learning,  vivid- 
ness of  description,  stateliness,  and  decorum.  His  style 
is  elaborate  and  powerful,  and  his  versification,  with  occa- 
sional harshness  and  affectation,  superior  in  harmon}^  and 
variety  to  all  other  blank  verse.  Milton  had  abundant  wit 
and  power  of  sarcasm,  but  not  much  humor.  His  minor 
poetry  has  great  beauty,  sweetness,  and  elegance. 

Milton's  "  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Fair  Infant  Dying 
in  Winter  "  was  written  in  his  eighteenth  year.  Masson 
has  well  said,  "  Probably  in  all  England  at  that  time 
could  not  be  found  a  youth  who  could  pen  such  verses 
as  these  "  :  — 

"  O  fairest  flower,  no  sooner  blown  but  blasted, 
Soft  silken  primrose,  fading  timelessly, 
Summer's  chief  honour,  if  thou  hadst  outlasted 
Bleak  Winter's  force  that  made  thy  blossom  dry : 
For  he,  being  amorous,  on  that  lovely  dye 
That  did  thy  cheek  envermeil,  thought  to  kiss. 
But  killed,  alas !  and  then  bewailed  his  fatal  bliss.'N 

While  yet  a  student  he  composed  his  ''  Ode  on  the  Na- 
tivity," which  Hallam  pronounces  "  perhaps  the  first  in 


188  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND   POETS. 

the  English  language."  Five  new  poems  were  composed 
during  his  residence  at  his  father's  country-seat  at  Hor- 
ton,  where  he  retired  to  study  classic  Uterature.  Here  he 
wrote  his  "  Comus  "  and  ''  Arcades,"  his  "  Allegro  "  and 
"Penseroso,"  and  his  ''Sonnet  to  the  Nightingale."  In 
'' L' Allegro  "  and  "  II  Penseroso,"  Milton  has  given  us 
two  companion  poems  on  two  distinct  conditions  of  mind ; 
and  the  language  contains  no  other  twin  compositions  more 
beautiful  than  these.  In  the  "  Allegro  "  the  poet  invokes 
Mirth  —  Euphrosyne,  the  daughter  of  Zephyr  and  Aurora 
—  to  bring  us  — 

"  Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides." 

As  the  "Penseroso"  is  conceived  in  contrast  to  the 
"  Allegro,"  Milton  now  invokes  Melancholy,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Saturn  and  Vesta,  — 

"  Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
,  Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain. 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  Cyprus  lawn 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  wrapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes ; 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble." 

The  "Arcades"  and  "Comus,"  both  written  in  the 
poet's  twenty-sixth  year,  are  examples  of  a  form  of 
literature  at  that  time  highly  popular,  but  now  obsolete,  — 


1 


1 


MILTON.  189 

the  Masque.  The  masque  originated  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.  Primarily,  it  consisted  only  of  scenery  and 
pantomime,  but  later,  poetical  dialogue,  songs,  and  music 
were  added. 

In  the  reign  of  James  and  the  first  Charles  the  masque 
had  reached  its  height,  and  it  then  employed  the  first 
talent  of  the  country  in  its  composition.  Masques  were 
generally  prepared  for  some  remarkable  occasion,  as  a 
coronation,  the  birth  of  a  young  prince  or  noble,  or  the 
visit  of  some  royal  personage  of  foreign  countries.  They 
usually  took  place  in  the  hall  of  the  palace,  and  as  Bacon 
remarks,  "  being  designed  for  princes,  they  were  b}"  princes 
played." 

The  preparation  of  such  pageants,  on  commission  from 
those  who  required  them,  had  at  last  become  a  regular 
part  of  the  dramatic  profession,  and  in  the  hands  of  such 
men  as  Chapman,  Fletcher,  and  Jonson,  the  literary  ca- 
pabilities of  the  masque  were  extended  and  perfected. 
"  The  part  of  the  poet  was  to  seize  the  meaning  of  the 
occasion,  to  invent  some  allegor}^,  or  adapt  some  scrap  of 
Grecian  m^^thology  or  chivalrous  legend,  in  the  action 
of  which  the  meaning  could  somehow  be  s3'mbolized, 
while  at  the  same  time  room  was  left  for  dances,  comi- 
calities, and  the  expected  songs  and  duets.  .  .  .  The  bit 
of  landscape  with  which  the  story  opened  ;  the  rocks, 
grottos,  castles,  etc.,  into  which  the  scene  changed;  the 
white  clouds  descending  from  the  sky,  out  of  which  came 
the  resplendent  maiden  or  goddess ;  the  rain,  the  thunder, 
and  the  bursts  of  beautiful  color ;  the  appropriate  dress 
for  n3'mphs  and  nereids,  satyrs  and  sea-gods,  negroes  or 
pj'gmies,  or  whatever  fantastic  beings  glided  or  gambolled, 
spoke  or  sung,"  —  were  elaborated  bj'  the  machinist.  Much 
depended  upon  the  skill  of  the  masquers  and  their  willing- 
ness to  spend  money  beforehand  in  rich  costumes.    In  this 


190  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


form  of  composition  the  dramatic  poets  exercised  their 
passion  for  pure  sensuous  invention. 

Though  Shakespeare  has  given  us  no  masques,  his 
'*  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  and  his  "  Tempest"  may 
be  classed  with  that  order  of  dramatic  fantasies. 

The  "Arcades"  being  but  a  slight  composition  com- 
pared with  the  "  Comus,"  1  pass  on  to  the  last-named 
production.  "  Comus"  was  founded  on  an  actual  occur- 
rence. Lord  Brackley  and  Mr.  Egerton,  sons  of  the  Earl 
of  Bridgewater,  then  President  of  Wales,  with  his  daugh- 
ter, Lad}'  Alice,  passing  through  the  forest  on  their  way 
to  Ludlow,  were  benighted,  and  the  lady  was  for  a  short 
time  lost ;  this  accident  being  related  to  Milton  b}'  his 
friend,  Henry  Lawes,  the  musician  who  taught  music  at 
the  castle,  Milton  at  his  request  composed  the  masque 
embodying  the  adventure,  and  it  was  acted  at  Ludlow 
Castle,  before  the  Earl,  on  Michaelmas  night,  1634.  The 
young  lady,  the  two  brothers,  and  Lawes  himself  each 
bore  a  part  in  the  representation. 

It  has  been  aptly  said  that  "  in  '  Comus '  Milton  has  shown 
what  the  pure  poetry  and  pure  morality  of  the  masque 
might  be."  Much  as  he  wrote  afterward,  he  never  has 
given  us  anything  more  poetically  perfect  than  "  Comus." 
Let  us  glance  at  a  few  scenes  in  this  bewitching  drama. 
First,  at  that  of  the  lady  entering  the  wood,  — the  dark 
wood  enchanted  bj'  Comus,  the  god  of  riot  and  intemper- 
ance, the  son  of  Bacchus  and  Circe,  who  waj-lays  travel- 
lers, and  induces  them  to  drink  his  charmed  liquor,  which 
changes  their  countenances  into  the  faces  of  beasts. 

The  lady  speaks,  — 

"  This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true, 
My  best  guide  now  :  methought  it  was  the  sound 
Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment, 
Such  as  the  jocund  flute  or  gamesome  pipe 


1 


MILTON.  191 

Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unlettered  hinds, 
When  from  their  teeming  flocks,  and  granges  full, 
In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan, 
And  thank  the  gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loath 
To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swill'd  insolence 
Of  such  late  wassailers.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  halloo  to  my  brothers,  but 
Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  farthest 
I  '11  venture  ;  for  my  new  enlivened  spirits 
Prompt  me ;  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  off." 

Now  comes  into  the  masque  the  song  to  Echo.  While  the 
lady  sings  it,  Comus  listens  in  admiration,  and  now,  dis- 
guised as  a  shepherd,  steps  forth  and  thus  hails  her,  — 

"  Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Breathe  such  divine,  enchanting  ravishment  1 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast. 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence : 
How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty-vaulted  night, 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkness  till  it  smiled  !    I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe,  with  the  Syrens  three. 
Amidst  the  flowery-kirtled  Naiades 
Culling  their  potent  herbs,  and  baleful  drugs. 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prison'd  soul 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium  ;  Scylla  wept. 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention. 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmured  soft  applause : 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled  the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madness  robb'd  it  of  itself ; 
But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight. 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  now." 

The  brothers,  bewildered  in  the  darkness,  return  at 
length  to  find  their  sister  gone;  the  younger  expresses 
fear  for  her  safety,  and  thus  the  elder  reassures  him,  — 


192  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  Peace,  Brother ;  be  not  over  exquisite 
To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  ills  : 
So  dear  to  Heaven  is  saintly  Chastity, 
That,  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 
A  thousand  liveried  Angels  lackey  her, 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt." 

The  attendant  spirit  in  disguise  now  comes  into  the 
masque,  and  relates  to  the  brothers  how,  musing  on  a 
bank  by  himself,  he  hears  the  barbarous  revels  of  Comus 
and  his  crew.  Suddenl}'  the  roar  ceased,  and  all  was 
silence;  as  he  listened,  at  last  — 

"...  A  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Rose  like  a  steam  of  rich  distill'd  perfumes, 
And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 
"Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wished  she  might 
Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more, 
Still  to  be  so  displac'd." 

It  was  the  lad}^  singing  to  Echo.  He  hastens  to  her  relief, 
knowing  by  whom  the  wood  is  inhabited,  but  she  has  been 
lured  away  before  he  reaches  the  spot.  The  scene  changes 
to  a  stately  palace,  set  out  with  all  manner  of  delicious- 
ness,  —  soft  music,  and  tables  spread  with  all  dainties. 
Comus  appears  with  his  rabble,  and  the  lady,  chained  as  a 
statue  of  alabaster,  sits  in  an  enchanted  chair.  He  offers 
the  charmed  cup  ;  she  cannot  rise,  but  refuses  it  in  disdain, 
and  thus  upbraids  the  sorcerer,  — 

"  Fool,  do  not  boast ; 
Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom  of  my  mind 
.  With  all  thy  charms  —  although  this  corporal  rind 
Thou  hast  immanacled  —  while  Heaven  sees  good. 
Hence  with  thy  brewed  enchantments,  foul  deceiver ! 
Were  it  a  draught  for  Juno  when  she  banquets, 
I  would  not  taste  thy  treasonous  offer  ;  none 
But  such  as  are  good  men  can  give  good  things ; 
And  that,  which  is  not  good,  is  not  delicious 
To  a  well-governed  and  wise  appetite." 


MILTON.  193 

Awed  by  the  superior  power  of  Chastitj',  but  not  baffled, 
Comus  again  lifts  the  enchanted  cup  to  her  lips ;  then 
rush  in  the  brothers  with  swords  drawn,  accompanied  by 
Thyrsis,  the  attendant  spirit.  They  wrest  the  enchanted 
glass  from  Comus,  break  it,  and  rout  him  and  his  crew ; 
but  the  lady  is  still  marble-bound  to  the  chair.  The  mo- 
tion of  the  wizard's  wand  would  have  released  her,  but  he 
has  escaped  with  it.  Thyrsis,  however,  has  a  device  in 
reserve :  Sabrina,  daughter  of  Locrene,  the  son  of  Brutus, 
of  whom  the  old  British  legends  tell  how,  to  preserve  her 
honor,  she  threw  herself  into  the  neighboring  river,  —  now 
the  far-famed  Severn,  —  is  the  goddess  of  that  river. 
Who  so  ready  to  succor  maidenhood?  Only  let  her  pres- 
ence be  adjured  by  some  suitable  song.  Thyrsis  himself 
sings,  — 

"  Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave. 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair; 
Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 
Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 
Listen,  and  save. 

"  By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance. 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head, 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed. 
And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave. 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 
Listen,  and  save." 

Sabrina  now  rises  from  under  the  stage,  attended  by 
water-nymphs,  and  sings,  — 

"  By  the  rushy-fringed  bank 
Where  grows  the  willow,  and  the  osier  dank. 

My  sliding  chariot  stays. 
Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azure  sheen 
13 


194       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Of  turkis  blue,  and  emerald  green. 

That  in  the  channel  strays ; 
Whilst,  from  off  the  vaters  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  priutless  feet 
On  the  cowslip's  velvet  head, 
That  bends  not  as  I  tread ; 
Gentle  swain,  at  thy  request, 
I  am  here." 

Sabrina,  being  duly  implored  to  undo  the  charm  of  the 
vile  enchanter,  sprinkles  drops  of  pure  water  on  the  lad}', 
and  disenchanted,  she  rises  from  her  seat.  The  spirit 
then  conducts  them  home ;  they  are  presented  to  their 
father  and  mother ;  songs  and  dances  follow ;  and  at  last 
Thyrsis  the  spirit  —  who  is  till  now  disguised  as  a  shep- 
herd—  resumes  his  ethereal  shape  ;  and  slowly  ascending 
and  swaying  to  and  fro,  he  sings  the  final  song,  which 
closes  thus :  — 

"  Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free : 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime ; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were. 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her." 

Of  "  Comus"  Hallara  says  :  *'  The  subject  required  an 
elevation,  a  purity,  a  sort  of  severitj"  of  sentiment,  which 
no  one  in  that  age  could  have  given  but  Milton."  ' '  Co- 
mus" was  first  published  in  1637,  not  b}^  its  author,  but  by 
Henr}'  Lawes,  the  musician,  who  in  his  dedication  says : 
''  Although  not  openl}'  acknowledged  by  its  author,  yet  it 
is  a  legitimate  offspring,  so  lovelj^  and  so  much  desired  that 
the  often  copying  it  hath  tired  my  pen  to  give  my  several 
friends  satisfaction." 

''  Lycidas,"  a  monody  on  Milton's  college  companion, 
Edward  King,  who  was  drowned  on  his  passage  from 
Chester  to  Ireland,  has   been  ranked  with  the  best  ele- 


MILTON.  195 

gies  in  our  language.  The  sounding  seas  float  upon  his 
*'  watery  bier  "  the  body  of  this  beloved  friend,  who 
**  knew  himself  to  sing  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme,"  while 
his  immortal  brother  poet,  transformed  in  imagination 
into  a  shepherd,  gives  it  in  affectionate  fanc}'  this  sweet 
Arcadian  burial :  — 

"...  Return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  rise 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks ; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell'd  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  showers. 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet. 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attir'd  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head. 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears : 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed. 
And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears. 
To  strew  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies." 

*'It  is  somewhat  remarkable,"  observes  Ilallam,  "  that 
Dr.  Johnson  has  committed  his  critical  reputation  by  the 
most  contemptuous  depreciation  of  this  poem."  When 
we  consider  that  in  reviewing  "Lycidas"  Johnson's  foot 
was  miles  awa}^  from  his  native  heath,  we  shall  not  so 
much  wonder  at  his  blunder.  As  a  critic  of  the  under- 
standing, Johnson  was  entirely  at  home  ;  but  pure  poesy, 
that  appeals  onl}"  to  the  imagination,  was  simply  unintelli- 
gible to  him ;  and  in  all  his  good,  useful,  but  earth- 
bounded  life,  he  had  never  even  dreamed  of  the  seraphic 
harmonies  that  made  with  Milton   their   famiUar  home. 


196  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

And  moreover,  he  could  never  forgive  Milton  his  politics 
and  principles,  or  lose  an  opportunity  to  vent  his  spleen 
upon  him.  His  "Lite  of  Milton"  is  the  least  veritable 
of  all  the  lives,  and  in  parts  is  meanl}-  malignant.  To 
every  man  his  due  ;  but  not  till  a  lumbering  elephant 
can  conceive  of  the  modus  operandi  of  a  humming-bird, 
will  men  of  Dr.  Johnson's  mould  be  divinely  commis- 
sioned to  analyze  the  delicate  "  soul-stuff"  of  poets.  Thus 
it  is  that  he  turns  from  this  exquisite  elegy,  with  its  de- 
scription of  flowers  even  surpassing  that  of  Shakespeare 
in  "Winter's  Tale,"  and  oracularly  pronounces  it  "dis- 
gusting" (!). 

Though  Milton's  minor  poetry  would  alone  have  ren- 
dered his  name  immortal,  the  measure  of  his  fame 
would  have  still  been  incomplete  without  his  great  epic. 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  or,  *'  The  Fall  of  Man,"  however  improb- 
able and  unreasonable  the  Hebrew  account  of  it  may  seem 
to  a  more  enlightened  theological  age,  was  undoubtedl}'  re- 
garded by  Milton  and  his  cotemporaries  as  an  actual  and 
veritable  occurrence.  That  it  had  long  been  familiar  to 
him  as  a  subject  for  poetry,  two  draughts  of  his  scheme,  pre- 
served among  the  manuscripts  in  Trinity  College  Librarj- , 
testify.  In  1642  the  poet,  with  that  calm  consciousness  of 
his  own  high  powers  which  was  but  natural  and  becoming 
to  a  soul  endowed  with  gifts  seldom  imparted  to  our  race, 
and  "  bound  everlastingly,"  as  he  says,  "  in  willing  hom- 
age to  the  holy  and  the  beautiful,"  promises  to  undertake 
a  work  that  will  do  honor  to  his  countr3\  "  A  work,"  he 
continues,  "  not  to  be  obtained  but  b}-  devout  prayer  to 
that  Eternal  Spirit  that  can  enrich  with  all  utterance  and 
knowledge,  and  sends  out  his  seraphim,  with  the  hallowed 
fire  of  his  altar,  to  touch  and  purif}'  the  lips  of  whom  he 
pleases."  In  an  epic  poem  the  subject  is  the  most  impor- 
tant part.      "  Milton's    subject,"   sa^'s   Addison,    "  was 


MILTON.  197 

greater  than  Homer's  or  Virgil's ;  it  does  not  determine 
the  fate  of  single  persons  or  nations,  but  of  the  whole 
species.  The  actors  are  the  united  powers  of  hell  and  the 
radiant  inhabitants  of  heaven,  man  in  his  greatest  perfec- 
tion, and  woman  in  her  highest  purity  and  beauty,  —  char- 
acters not  only  more  magnificent  but  more  new  than  any 
characters  in  Homer  or  Virgil,  or  indeed  in  the  whole 
circle  of  nature.  These  actors  are  not  only  our  progeni- 
tors, but  our  representatives  ;  and  we  have  an  actual  inter- 
est in  everything  they  do,  and  no  less  than  our  utmost 
happiness  is  concerned  and  lies  at  stake  in  their  behavior. 
These  characters,  for  the  most  part,  lie  out  of  nature,  and 
were  to  be  formed  purely  b}^  the  poet's  own  invention." 

By  the  choice  of  the  noblest  words  which  our  tongue 
could  afford  him,  Milton  has  carried  our  language  to  a 
greater  height  than  any  of  the  EngUsh  poets  have  ever 
done  before  or  after  him.  If  he  has  introduced  foreign 
idioms  and  transpositions,  it  has  been  remarked  that  "  his 
sentiments  were  so  wonderfully  sublime  that  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  have  represented  them  in  their 
full  strength  and  beauty  without  having  recourse  to  these 
foreign  assistances.  Our  language  sunk  under  him,  and 
was  unequal  to  that  greatness  of  soul  which  furnished  him 
with  such  glorious  conceptions." 

In  his  conceptions  of  Satan  and  Eve,  Milton  has  been 
accorded  "  perfect  character."  Satan  may  be  regarded 
as  the  grand  effort  of  his  genius.  To  an  enlightened 
Christian  philosophy  evil  is  not  dispensed  to  man  by  a 
malignant  demon,  but  wisely  allotted  to  him  by  One,  — 

"  For  whom  to  live,  is  still  to  give, 
And  sweeter  than  our  wish  His  wiU :  '* 

yet  in  its  cruder  conceptions  of  the  control  of  the  uni- 
verse, the  imagination  has  almost  invariably  divided  its 


198  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

sway  between  two  distinct  agencies,  —  the  one  creative, 
preservative,  and  beneficent,  the  other  destructive  and 
malignant ;  and  the  popular  presentation  of  each  has  been 
somewhat  in  accordance  with  the  development  of  the  race. 

To  the  old  Hebrew,  literal  and  material,  both  good  and 
evil  became  incorporate.  Satan,  clothed  in  tangible,  sub- 
stantial matter,  went  ''  to  and  fro  in  the  earth,  and  walked 
up  and  down  it."  The  age  of  Milton  had  scarcely  im- 
proved upon  the  Hebrew  Devil.  "Nothing  less  than  horns 
and  a  tail,"  says  Hallam,  *'  were  the  orthodox  creed." 
Compare  the  Satan  handed  down  from  the  Miracle  and 
Moral  plays  of  England  ("  a  creature  without  human  shape, 
yet  denied  the  fair  proportions  of  a  beast ")  with  Milton's 
ruined  archangel,  as  in  the  language  of  Channing  he  is 
thus  finely'  presented,  — "  Colossal  in  strength  and  majesty, 
repelling  us  b^^  his  transcendent  evil,  yet  almost  ennobling 
the  soul  by  his  exhibition  of  the  unsubdued  energy  of 
mind  triumphing  over  unutterable  physical  agony,"  —  and 
you  will  at  once  admit  that  the  poet  foreruns  his  age  in 
the  harmony  and  grandeur  of  the  ideal  conception,  and 
allow  that  the  character  of  Milton*s  Satan  will,  so  long 
as  the  Janguage  is  spoken,  command  our  admiration  as 
a  sublime  poetic  effort. 

We  must  observe  the  wisdom  of  Milton  in  investing  his 
hero  with  form  and  matter  (since  pure  immaterial  essence 
would  have  failed  to  convej^  to  the  human  mind  an  ade- 
quate image  of  his  attributes),  and  his  delicate  sense  of 
fitness  and  propriety  in  making  that  matter  in  a  large 
degree  superior  to  the  natural  laws  b}^  which  we  suppose 
matter  to  be  governed.  It  has  been  well  observed  that 
"  there  is  an  indefiniteness  in  the  description  of  the  person 
of  Satan  which  excites  without  shocking  the  imagination, 
and  aids  us  to  reconcile  in  our  conception  of  him  a  human 
form  with  superhuman  attributes."    Thus  he  is  first  pictured 


MILTON.  199 

rising  from  the  burning  lake  after  the  nine  da3-s'  trance  suc- 
ceeding his  dreadful  overthrow  and  fall  from  heaven  :  — 

"  With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed ;   his  other  parts  besides 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large, 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood.  .  .  . 
Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 
His  mighty  stature ;   on  each  hand  the  flames 
Driven  backward  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and  roll'd 
In  billows  leave  i'  th'  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight 
Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air. 
His  spear  .  .  . 

He  walked  with  to  support  uneasy  steps 
Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps  ^ 

On  heaven's  azure,  and  the  torrid  clime 
Smote  on  him  sore  besides  vaulted  with  fire." 

And  here  follows  that  one  matchless  sentence  which  gives 
us  the  ke3'-note  to  Satan's  grandeur,  —  "  Natheless  he  so 
indured." 

''  By  merit  raised  to  that  bad  eminence,"  with  what 
''pomp  supreme,  and  godlike  imitated  state"  he  takes 
possession  of  hell's  gorgeous  throne !  And  with  what 
cunning  policy  he  thence  harangues  his  subjects :  — 

**  Powers  and  dominions,  deities  of  heav'n ! 
For  since  no  deep  within  her  gulf  can  hold 
Immortal  vigor,  though  oppress'd  and  fallen, 
I  give  not  heaven  for  lost :  from  this  descent 
Celestial  virtues  rising  will  appear 
More  glorious  and  more  dread,  than  from  no  fall, 
And  trust  themselves  to  fear  no  second  fate." 

Milton  in  his  delineation  of  Satan  ignores  the  illogical 
and  unlovely  doctrine  of  total  depravity,  since  he  allows 
even  to  the  archangel  of  evil  exalted  sentiments  and 
touches  of  better  feeling ;  as  in  the  glimmerings  of  re- 
morse and  self-accusation  inspired  in   his   mind   by  the 


200  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

distant  prospect  of  Eden,  before  the  opening  of  his  noble 
address  to  the  Sun,  and  in  his  partial  relenting  after  the 
contemplation  of  Adam  and  Eve  in  their  beauty  and  in- 
nocence in  the  bowers  of  Paradise. 

"  Ah,  gentle  pair,  ye  little  thiuk  how  nigh 
Your  change  approaches,  when  all  these  delights 
Will  vanish,  and  deliver  ye  to  woe : 
And  should  I  at  your  harmless  innocence 
Melt,  as  I  do,  yet  public  reason  just. 
Honour  and  empire  with  revenge  enlarged, 
By  conquering  this  new  world,  compels  me  now 
To  do  what  else,  though  damned,  I  should  abhor." 

Witness  too,  his  remorseful  burst  of  tenderness  when 
beholding  — 

"  Millions  of  spirits  for  his  fault  amerc'd 
Of  heaven,  and  from  eternal  splendor  flung 
For  his  revolt,  yet  faithful  how  they  stood, 
Their  glory  withered." 

He  strove  to  address  them  and  — 

"  Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thrice  in  spite  of  scorn. 
Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth." 

Satan's  ironic  scorn  is  finely  delineated  in  that  passage 
•where,  required  to  give  an  account  of  himself  to  the  patrol- 
ling angel,  he  exclaims,  — 

"  Know  ye  not  me  ?     Ye  knew  me  once  no  mate 
For  you,  there  sitting  where  you  durst  not  soar; 
Not  to  know  me,  argues  yourself  unknown. 
The  lowest  of  your  throng." 

And  again,  when  — 

" .  .  .On  the  beach. 

Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called 
His  legions,  angel  forms,  who  lay  entranc'd 
Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa.  .  .  . 


MILTON.  201 

He  called  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 

Of  hell  resounded  :  Princes,  potentates. 

Warriors,  the  flower  of  heav'n,  once  yours,  now  lost. 

If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 

Eternal  spirits ;  or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 

After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 

Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find 

To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vale  of  heaven  1 

Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 

To  adore  the  conqueror  1  .  .  . 

AwaJi-e,  arise,  or  be  forever  fallen  ! " 

Thus  has  the  poet's  imagination  achieved  its  highest 
triumph  by  portra3'ing  a  character  which  —  to  borrow 
the  thought  of  Coleridge —  **  is  so  often  seen  in  little  on 
the  political  stage,  exhibiting  all  the  restlessness,  temerity, 
and  cunning  of  the  mighty  hunters  of  mankind,  from  Nim- 
rod  to  Napoleon,"  and  by  throwing  around  this  character 
a  singularity-  of  daring,  a  grandeur  of  sufferance,  and  a 
ruined  splendor  that  make  him  a  monarch  to  whom  alone 
we  may  accord  the  throne  of  hell. 

In  its  universality'  lies  the  wonderful  power  of  genius. 
Turning  from  the  ruined  archangel  to  spotless  Eve,  new- 
moulded,  dewy  and  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God  in  all  her 
loveliness,  we  can  scarcely  conceive  her  to  be  a  creation 
of  the  same  mind.  Thus  she  is  first  pictured  by  the 
poet : — 

"  For  softness  formed,  and  sweet  attractive  grace ; 

She  as  a  veil  down  to  her  slender  waist 

Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore 

Dishevelled,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  waved. 

So  passed  she  naked  on,  nor  shunned  the  sight 

Of  Grod  or  angels,  for  she  thought  no  ill." 

Thus  Adam  beautifully  acknowledges  to  the  angel  the 
superior  charm  of  her  mental  loveliness,  — 

"  Neither  her  outside  form  so  fair 
So  much  delights  me,  as  those  graceful  acts 


202  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Those  thousand  decencies  that  daily  flow 

From  all  her  words  and  actions.     So  absolute  she  seems 

And  in  herself  complete,  so  well  to  know 

Her  own,  that  what  she  wills  to  do  or  say 

Seems  wisest,  virtuousest,  discreetest,  best : 

All  higher  knowledge  in  her  presence  falls 

Degraded,  wisdom  in  discourse  with  her 

Loses  discountenanced,  and  like  folly  shews: 

Authority  and  reason  on  her  wait. 

As  one  intended  first,  not  after  made 

Occasionally ;  and,  to  consummate  all, 

Greatness  of  mind  and  nobleness  their  seat 

Build  in  her  loveliest,  and  create  an  awe 

About  her,  as  a  guard  angelic  placed." 

Dr.  Johnson  has  accused  Milton  of  a  "  Turkish  con- 
tempt for  woman,  as  shown  in  his  delineation  of  Eve ;  " 
surely  a  woman  of  the  above  type  would  ill  become  an 
Oriental  harem ! 

Lovely  and  purel}^  feminine  is  this  picture  of  our  fair 
mother :  — 

"  With  lowliness  majestic  from  her  seat  she  rose, 
And  grace  that  won  who  saw  to  wish  her  stay 
Rose  and  went  forth  among  her  fruits  and  flowers. 
To  visit  how  they  prospered,  bud  and  bloom, 
Her  nursery ;  they  at  her  coming  sprung. 
And  touched  by  her  fair  tendance,  gladlier  grew." 

This  description  of  Eve's  housewifery  in  anticipation  of 
Raphael  at  dinner,  is  finely  drawn  :  — 

"  So  saying,  with  despatcliful  looks  in  haste 
She  turns,  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent 
What  choice  to  choose  for  delicacy  best, 
What  order,  so  contrived  as  not  to  mix 
Tastes,  not  well  joined,  inelegant,  but  bring 
Taste  after  taste,  upheld  with  kindliest  change  ; 
Bestirs  her  then,  and  from  each  tender  stalk 
Whatever  earth,  all-bearing  mother,  yields 
She  gathers,  tribute  large,  and  on  the  board 
Heaps  with  unsparing  hand ;  for  drink  the  grape 


I 


MILTON.  203 

She  crushes,  inoffensive  must,  and  meathes 
From  many  a  berry,  and  from  sweet  kernels  pressed 
She  tempers  dulcet  creams,  nor  these  to  hold 
Wants  her  fit  vessels  pure ;  then  strows  the  ground 
With  rose  and  odours  from  the  shrub  unfumed." 

Charlotte  Bronte  complains  that  "  Milton  saw  in  Eve 
his  cooh^  not  the  mother  of  mankind."  And  why  not  give 
to  the  fair  mistress  of  Eden  culinary  genius?  In  that 
sparsely  settled  region,  the  cooking,  if  not  attended  to  by 
Eve,  must  have  been  assigned  to  Adam  —  which  Heaven 
forbid ! 

Another  authoress  sees  only  in  Eve  *'an  overgrown 
bab}',  with  nothing  to  recommend  her  but  her  submission 
and  her  fine  hair."  Let  us  leave  to  her  undisputed  pos- 
session that  adjunct  of  beauty  so  often  deplorably  missing 
in  her  daughters  ;  but  as  to  her  "  submission,"  it  may  be 
disputed  on  the  best  of  authority,  since  Adam   himself 

says, — 

**  Authority  and  reason  on  her  wait. 
As  one  intended  first,  not  after  made 
Occasionally." 

This  graceful,  delicate,  and  purely  feminine  creation  of 
Milton  is  supposed  to  stand  for  Nature's  first  attempt  at 
womankind.  Remembering  this,  and  taking  into  consid- 
eration the  roundabout  way  of  her  production,  we  ma}', 
I  think,  regard  her  with  some  satisfaction.  In  the  ''  cour- 
age of  her  convictions  "  she  at  least  surpasses  Adam,  who 
somewhat  meanly  la3's  at  her  door  his  share  of  the  blame, 
after  the  "gentle  pair"  have  together  undone  us  all. 
Hallam  says,  "  If  Milton  had  made  Eve  a  wit  or  a  blue, 
the  Fall  might  have  been  accounted  for  as  easily  as  possi- 
ble, and  spared  the  serpent  the  trouble." 

In  1671  Milton  produced  his  "Paradise  Regained,"  — 
a  model  of  the  shorter  epic,  an  action  comprehending  few 
characters  and  a  brief  space  of  time.     The  subject  was 


204       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

far  less  capable  of  calling  forth  the  vast  powers  of  the 
poet's  mind ;  and  though  it  abounds  with  passages  equal 
to  an}^  of  the  same  nature  in  '*  Paradise  Lost,"  it  is,  as  a 
whole,  less  ornate,  elevated,  and  imaginative,  and  cannot 
at  all  compare  throughout  with  the  greater  poem.  '*  Sam- 
son Agonistes  "  succeeded  ''  Paradise  Regained."  In  this 
his  last  poem  ''  ebbs  the  mighty  tide  of  Milton's  genius." 
An  air  of  grandeur  pervades  it,  the  vigor  of  thought  re- 
mains, but  the  imagination  flags  ;  and  it  is  not,  even  with 
the  lovers  of  poetry,  a  popular  poem,  though  critics  as- 
sert that  it  deserves  a  higher  rank  than  has  been  accorded 
it.  ''  In  '  Paradise  Lost,'  "  says  Craik,  *'  Milton  rises  high 
above  all  Greek,  above  all  Roman  fame."  The  first  book 
of  that  poem  is  held,  by  the  same  critic,  to  be  "  probably 
the  most  perfect  and  splendid  of  all  human  compositions." 
Judging  it,  not  from  a  theological,  or  even  from  an 
ethical  standpoint,  but  purely  as  a  work  of  art,  posterity 
will,  I  think,  confirm  his  estimate  of  this  noble  poem.  It 
was  begun  by  Milton  in  1658,  completed  in  1665,  and 
put  in  print  in  1667.  Simmons,  the  bookseller,  gave  five 
pounds  down  for  it !  Five  more  were  to  be  received  from 
him  for  two  ensuing  editions.  When  the  third  payment 
fell  due,  Milton  no  longer  needed  mortal  pittances,  and  it 
was  received  by  his  widow,  who  outlived  him  fifty-three 
years.  She  sold  all  her  claims  on  the  poem  for  eight 
pounds !  In  thirteen  years  but  three  thousand  copies 
had  been  sold. 


POETS    OF   THE   ARTIFICIAL   SCHOOL.  205 


CHAPTER  XI. 

POPE,  AND  THE  MINOR  POETS  OF  THE  ARTIFICIAL 
SCHOOL. 

THE  reigns  of  William  HI.,  Anne,  and  George  I. 
produced  a  class  of  poets  to  whom  is  justl}'  awarded 
the  praise  due  to  a  polished  style,  and  a  felicitj-  in  paint- 
ing artificial  life,  —  qualities  less  valued  in  our  own  time 
than  the  bold  originality  of  style  and  thought,  the  vivid 
imaginative  power,  and  the  depth  of  natural  sentiment 
which  characterizes  the  poets  who  preceded  them.  They 
were  sagacious,  neat,  clear,  and  reasonable,  but  for  the 
most  part  cold,  timid,  and  superficial. 

The  period  of  twelve  3^ears  which  comprises  the  reign 
of  Anne  —  from  1 702  to  1 714  —  was  styled  during  the  whole 
of  the  eighteenth  century  the  Augustan  era  of  English 
literature,  on  account  of  its  supposed  resemblance  in  in- 
tellectual opulence  to  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Augus- 
tus. *'  The  present  age  has  not  followed  or  confirmed  this 
opinion." 

During  the  whole  thirty-eight  years  of  which  this  era 
was  the  central  period,  the  popular  poets  either  filled  high 
diplomatic  and  official  situations,  or  were  engaged  in 
schemes  of  ambition,  where  offices  of  State,  and  the  as- 
cendency of  rival  parties,  rather  than  poetical  or  literary 
laurels,  were  the  prizes  contended  for. 

"Writing,"  says  an  observing  critic,  **with  infinite  good 
sense,  grace,  and  vivacity,  and  above  all,  writing  for  the  first 
time  in  a  tone  that  was  peculiar  to  the  upper  ranks  of  society, 


206       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


and  upon  subjects  that  were  almost  exclusively  interesting 
them,  they  naturally  figured  as  the  most  accomplished,  fashion 
able,  and  perfect  writers  which  the  world  had  ever  seen,  and 
made  the  wild,  luxuriant,  and  humble  sweetness  of  our  earlier 
poets  appear  rude  and  untutored  in  the  comparison.  Yet  amid 
all  the  gayety,  polish,  and  sprightliness  of  fancy  conspicuous 
in  the  writers  of  this  period,  we  look  in  vain  for  the  lyrical 
grandeur  and  enthusiasm  which  charms  us  in  the  elder  poets 
and  redeems  so  many  apparent  errors." 

Though  by  mixing  in  courtly  society,  and  enjoying  much 
worldly  prosperity  and  importance,  the  poets  of  this  time 
may  have  gained  in  taste  and  correctness,  they  undoubt- 
edly impaired  the  native  vigor  and  originality  of  genius 
and  the  steadj^  worship  of  truth  and  Nature.  *'  The  path 
of  things  is  silent ; "  and  high  thoughts  and  divine  im- 
aginations are  most  successfull}^  nursed  in  solitude. 

The  modish  court  Muse  in  hoop  and  stays,  stiff  in  bro- 
cade, and  refulgent  in  jewels,  bears  little  resemblance  to 
the  graceful  sisterhood  of  Helicon  ;  yet  the  age,  it  must  be 
allowed,  produced  several  writers  who,  each  in  his  own 
line,  may  be  called  extraordinary.  At  the  head  of  this, 
the  artificial  school  of  verse,  was  Alexander  Pope,  by 
whom  the  poetry  of  elegant  and  artificial  life  was  exhib- 
ited in  a  perfection  never  since  attained.  Pope  was  bom 
in  London,  May  21,  1688. 

His  father,  a  linen-draper,  having  acquired  an  indepen- 
dent fortune,  retired  to  Binfield,  Windsor  Forest.  He 
was  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  the  young  poet  was  partly 
educated  by  the  family  priest.  Subsequently  being  sent 
to  a  Catholic  seminary,  he  lampooned  his  teacher,  was 
severely  punished,  and  afterward  taken  home  by  his 
parents,  and  attended  no  school  after  his  twelfth  year. 
Though  self-educated,  the  whole  of  Pope's  early  life  is 
affirmed  to  have  been  that  of  a  severe  student.  He  was, 
even  from  infancy-,  a  poet,  and  tells  us  that  — 


^ 

rto    II 


POETS   OF   THE  ARTIFICIAL  SCHOOL.  207 

"  As  yet  a  child,  and  all  unknown  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came.** 

Dryden  earl}-  became  the  particular  object  of  his  admi- 
ration, and  when  not  more  than  twelve  years  of  age,  he 
prevailed  upon  a  friend  to  introduce  him  to  the  coffee- 
house which  Dryden  then  frequented,  that  he  might  have 
the  gratification  of  seeing  the  great  master  of  the  art, 
whom  he  afterward  acknowledged  to  be  his  instructor  in 
versification ;  and  who,  though  infinitely  less  subtile,  pol- 
ished, and  refined  than  Pope  (being  a  homelier  and  bolder 
artist,  and  far  more  true  to  Nature) ,  must  be  regarded  as 
the  founder  of  this  school  of  poetry  of  which  Pope  may 
claim  to  be  the  master.  At  that  early  age  Pope  wrote, 
and  afterward  destroj^ed,  various  dramatic  pieces  ;  and  at 
the  age  of  sixteen  he  composed  his  pastorals,  in  imitation 
of  Chaucer. 

In  1711  appeared  his  "  Essay  on  Criticism,"  —  a  work 
which,  though  composed  when  the  author  was  onlj^  twenty- 
one,  displays  a  marvellous  ripeness  of  judgment,  and  is 
affirmed  to  be  the  finest  piece  of  argumentative  and  rea- 
soning poetr}'  in  the  English  language.  This  essay,  com- 
mended by  Addison  in  the  ''  Spectator,"  immediatel}^  rose 
into  great  popularity.  The  style  of  Pope  was  now  formed 
and  complete.  His  versification  was  that  of  his  model, 
Dryden ;  but  he  gave  to  the  heroic  couplet  a  terseness, 
correctness,  and  melody  all  his  own. 

The  essay  was  shortly  afterward  followed  by  the  "  Rape 
of  the  Lock,"  —  the  most  graceful,  ingenious,  and  delight- 
ful of  all  his  compositions.  The  subject  of  this  poem  was 
the  stealing  of  a  lock  of  hair  from  a  beauty  of  the  day 
by  her  lover,  whose  playful  pilfering  was  taken  seriously, 
and  caused  an  estrangement  between  the  lovers  and  their 
respective  families.  Pope  wrote  his  poem  to  reconcile 
them  by  making  a  jest  of  the  affair.     In  this  amicable  un- 


208  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS 

dertaking  he  did   not  succeed,   though  by  the  effort  he 
added  vastly  to  his  poetical  reputation. 

The  machinery  of  the  poem,  founded  upon  the  fanciful 
yet  charming  theory  that  the  elements  are  inhabited  by 
sylphs,  gnomes,  nj^mphs,  and  salamanders,  Was  suggested 
by  some  of  his  friends.  By  blending  the  most  delicate 
satire  with  the  most  lively  fancy,  in  the  "Rape  of  the 
Lock  "  Pope  has  produced  a  poem  which  is  allowed  to  be 
the  finest  and  most  brilliant  mock-heroic  poem  in  the 
world.  He  could  scarcely  have  conceived  a  more  admira- 
ble prototj^pe  of  our  modern  society  belle  than  his  Belinda 
of  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock  "  :  — 

"  Fair  njTnphs  and  well-dress'd  youths  around  her  slione. 
But  every  eye  was  fix'd  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfix'd  as  those. 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike. 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride. 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide : 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you  '11  forget  them  all." 

Pope's  description  of  the  sylphs  may  compare  with 
Shakespeare's  conception  of  Ariel :  — 

"  Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold ; 
Transparent  forms  too  fine  for  mortal  sight. 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew. 
Thin  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew, 
Dipped  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies. 
Where  light  disports  in  ever  mingling  dyes, 


POETS  OF  THE  ARTIFICIAL   SCHOOL.  209 

While  every  beam  new  transient  colours  flings, 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their  wings. 

Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  ether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on  high, 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless  sky : 
Some,  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night, 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  airs  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow. 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main, 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  in  kindly  rain. 
Others,  on  earth,  o'er  human  race  preside, 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions  guide." 

Pope  now  commenced  the  translation  of  the  Iliad.  This 
gigantic  task  is  said  to  have  at  first  oppressed  him  with  its 
difficulty ;  but  in  a  short  time,  as  he  grew  more  familiar 
with  Homer's  images  and  expressions,  his  work  became 
less  formidable,  and  he  was  soon  able  to  despatch  fifty 
verses  a  day.  By  this  translation  the  poet  obtained  a 
clear  sum  of  five  thousand  three  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds.     Well  might  he  exclaim,  — 

"  And  thanks  to  Homer,  since  I  live  and  thrive, 
Indebted  to  no  prince  or  peer  alive." 

Critics  have  disagreed  in  their  estimate  of  this  work. 
Dr.  Johnson  calls  it  ''the  noblest  version  of  poetry  the 
world  has  ever  seen."  The  fatal  facility  of  Pope's  rhjTne, 
the  additional  false  ornaments  which  he  imparted  to  the 
ancient  Greek,  and  his  departure  from  the  nice  discrimi- 
nation of  character  and  speech  which  prevails  in  Homer, 
are  faults  which  more  modern  critics  have  universally  ad- 
mitted. Cowper  remarks  that  "  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey 
in  Pope's  hands  have  no  more  the  air  of  antiquity  than 
if  he  himself  had  invented  them." 

14 


210       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Pope's  genius  was  certain!}'  most  un-Homeric,  yet  the 
English  Iliad  is  still  allowed  by  those  who  have  knowl- 
edge and  skill  to  estimate  its  excellence  and  difficult}^, 
to  be  a  great  work.  The  success  of  the  Iliad  led  to  the 
translation  of  the  Od^'ssey ;  and  though  to  this  work  the 
poet  called  in  assistance,  the  two  translations  occupied  a 
period  of  twelve  j^ears. 

Pope  was  now  enabled  to  purchase  a  house  and  grounds 
nearer  the  metropolis,  and  in  1725  he  removed  with  his 
father  and  mother,  to  whom  his  affection  and  reverence 
was,  through  life,  touchingly  constant  and  undeviating, 
from  the  shades  of  Windsor  Forest  to  his  villa  at  Twick- 
enham, where  he  resided  during  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
This  classic  spot  Pope  delighted  to  improve,  and  the  taste 
with  which  he  laid  out  his  grounds  —  five  acres  in  all  —  is 
said  to  have  had  a  marked  effect  on  English  landscape 
gardening.  The  Prince  of  Wales  took  the  design  of  his 
garden  from  Pope's ;  and  from  him  Kent,  the  improver 
and  embellisher  of  pleasure-grounds,  received  his  best 
lessons.  Here  the  poet  was  visited  by  ministers  of  State, 
wits,  poets,  and  beauties. 

In  1716  Pope  wrote  the  most  highly  poetical  and  pas- 
sionate of  his  works,  the  "  Epistle  from  Eloisa  to  Abe- 
lard."  The  delicacy  of  narration,  the  glow  and  fervor  of 
passion,  the  beauty  of  imager}^  and  description,  in  this 
poem,  have  been  highly  commended ;  while  the  exquisite 
melody  of  its  versification  has  been  aptly  compared  to 
"  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  tones  of  an  ^olian  harp." 
Pope  has  conceived  nothing  finer  than  the  closing  pas- 
sages of  the  poem,  where  the  heroine,  from  the  cruel  un- 
rest of  love  and  the  agony  of  penitence,  rises  at  last  into 
the  highest  devotional  rapture,  and  subsides  into  saintly 
resignation. 

In  1733  Pope  published  his  "  Essay  on  Man,"  being 


POETS    OF   THE   ARTIFICIAL   SCHOOL.  211 

part  of  a  course  of  moral  philosophy  in  verse,  which  he 
projected.  The  poem  is  perhaps  more  to  be  commended 
for  its  poetry  than  its  philosophy.  Its  metaph^'sical  dis- 
tinctions have  been  in  a  measure  superseded  by  broader 
views  of  life ;  j^et  it  is  throughout  brilliant  with  fine  pas- 
sages that  will,  no  doubt,  be  quoted  and  admired  so  long 
as  the  language  endures.  Its  moralitj'  too  is  good  for  all 
time  ;  it  maj^  be  seen  in  passages  like  these :  — 

"  In  Faith  and  Hope  the  world  -will  disagree, 
Bnt  all  mankind's  concern  is  charity." 

**  Honour  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honour  lies." 

"  A  wit 's  a  feather,  and  a  chief  a  rod ; 
An  honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 

"  One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs." 

Pope's  future  labors  were  chiefly  confined  to  satire.  Of 
all  his  satires  the  "  Dunciad  "  is  the  most  elaborate  and 
splendid.  Though  displaying  his  fertile  invention,  his 
variety  of  illustration,  and  the  unrivalled  force  and  facil- 
ity of  his  diction,  it  has  still  been  regarded  rather  with 
pity  than  admiration,  —  pity  that  one  so  highly  gifted 
should  allow  himself  to  descend  to  personal  abuse,  and 
devote  the  end  of  a  great  literary  life  to  a  work  so  mean. 
Pope  as  a  satirist  is  surpassed  by  Dryden.  Though  he 
attained  to  more  finished  excellence  in  composition,  his 
satirical  portraits,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  are  feeble 
compared  with  those  of  his  great  master,  "  who,"  as  has 
been  observ^ed,  "  drew  from  the  life,  and  hit  off  strong 
likenesses,  while  Pope,  like  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  refined 
in  his  colors,  and  many  of  his  pictures  are  faint  and  van- 
ishing delineations." 


212  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Between  the  j-ears  1733  and  1740  the  poet  published  his 
inimitable  epistles,  satires,  and  moral  essay's. 

The  last  days  of  Pope  were  disturbed  by  political  events  ; 
the  anticipated  approach  of  the  Pretender  led  the  Govern- 
ment to  issue  a  proclamation  prohibiting  ever3'  Roman 
Catholic  from  appearing  within  ten  miles  of  London.  The 
poet  complied  with  the  proclamation,  but  was  soon  after- 
ward too  ill  to  appear  in  town. 

A  constant  state  of  excitement,  added  to  a  life  of  cease- 
less study  and  contemplation,  operating  on  a  frame  natu- 
rally delicate  and  deformed  from  birth,  had  completely 
exhausted  his  vital  energies.  He  submitted  without  a 
murmur  to  his  sickness,  which  he  terms  "•  this  additional 
proclamation  from  the  Highest  of  all  Powers."  He  now 
complained  of  his  inability  to  think ;  3xt  a  short  time 
before  his  death  he  said,  "  I  am  so  certain  of  the  soul's 
being  immortal  that  I  seem  to  feel  it  within  me,  as  it 
were,  by  intuition."  The  dearest  dream  of  this  man's  life 
had  been  literary  fame ;  and  for  that  he  was  even  willing 
to  sacrifice  the  manly  virtues  of  candor  and  sincerity. 
The  soul,  "  so  long  misled  by  wandering  fires,"  comes 
home  at  last ;  and  these  are  his  dying  words  :  ' '  There  is 
nothing  that  is  meritorious  but  virtue  and  friendship." 

Pope  died  on  the  30th  of  Ma}^,  1744.  As  a  poet  he 
will  not  rank  with  the  great  masters  of  the  lyre.  He  has 
neither  the  creative  energy  nor  the  universalitj^  of  Shake- 
speare ;  he  lacks  the  sublimity  of  Milton,  the  wild,  luxu- 
rious sweetness  of  Spenser,  and  the  wholesome,  heart}^ 
fidelity  to  Mother  Nature  which  so  charms  us  in  Chaucer. 
In  a  sound  and  vigorous  body  his  genius  would  no  doubt 
have  developed  differently ;  as  it  was,  his  life  seems  to 
have  been  too  introverted  and  self-centred.  His  moral 
nature  was  refined  and  high-toned,  but  shackled  and 
cramped  by  an  outworn  and  illiberal  creed;    he  was  a 


POETS   OF   THE  ARTIFICIAL  SCHOOL.  213 

fond  and  steady  friend,  yet  his  extreme  sensibility,  his 
hasty  and  irritable  temper,  and  over-indulged  vanity  often 
betrayed  him  into  mean  petulance  and  undignified  fierce- 
ness. Though  not  the  anointed  high-priest  of  Nature,  he 
was  organically  the  nicest  observer  and  the  most  accu- 
rate describer  of  the  phenomena  of  the  mind.  Critics 
have  allowed  him  wit,  fancy,  good  sense,  and  an  elegance 
which  has  never  been  surpassed,  or  perhaps  equalled, 
being  a  combination  of  intellect,  imagination,  and  taste, 
under  the  direction  of  an  independent  spirit  and  refined 
moral  feeling.  If  he  had  studied  more  in  the  school  of 
Nature,  and  perhaps  less  in  that  of  art,  he  might  have 
strung  his  lyre  to  deeper  and  diviner  melodies ;  but  as  it 
is,  he  is  one  of  our  most  brilliant  and  accomplished  Eng- 
lish poets. 

"Pope's  epistolary  excellence,"  says  Johnson,  "had 
an  open  field ;  he  had  no  English  rival,  living  or  dead." 
A  notorious  publisher  of  the  day,  having  obtained  by  sur- 
reptitious means  a  portion  of  the  correspondence  of  Pope, 
the  poet  complied  with  the  general  entreaty  of  the  public 
and  gave  to  the  world  a  collection  of  his  letters,  which 
went  through  several  editions.  As  literature  was  the  busi- 
ness of  Pope's  life,  and  composition  his  first  and  favorite 
pursuit,  he  wrote  always  with  a  view  to  admiration  and 
fame.  Consequently  his  letters  are  too  carefully  and  elabo- 
rately written  for  spontaneous  eflfusions  of  private  confi- 
dence, 3^et  many  of  them  are  exquisitely  beautiful  in  thought 
and  imagery.  Nothing  could  be  finer  in  its  way  than  that 
description  of  the  death  of  two  lovers  by  lightning  given 
in  a  letter  to  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  in  1718. 

The  over-curious  admirers  of  Pope  may  be  gi-atified  with 
the  most  minute  details  of  his  person  and  peculiarities ; 
for  "  are  they  not  all  to  be  found  in  the  book  of  the  Chroni- 
cles" of  Johnson  the  doctor?    They  may  know  how  at 


214       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

table,  the  poet  (poor  little  man !)  had  his  seat  raised  to 
bring  him  on  a  level  with  his  dinner  ;  how,  like  Harry  Gill, 
he  shivered  all  the  long  winter ;  and  wore  a  doublet  of  fur 
under  his  linen  shirt;  how  he  enlarged  his  slender  legs 
with  three  pairs  of  hose,  and  wore  a  stiff-laced  canvas 
bodice  under  his  flannel  waistcoat,  and  had  recourse  to 
a  tie-wig  when  his  hair  fell  awaj^ ;  how  he  delighted  to 
heat  potted  lampreys  in  a  silver  saucepan,  and  at  dinner 
was  fain  to  roll  spiced  meats  as  sweet  morsels  under  his 
tongue.  They  may  learn  that  he  munched  biscuits  and 
dry  conserves  between  the  courses ;  that  he  sometimes 
nodded  in  company,  and  once,  when  the  Prince  of  Wales 
was  talking  of  poetry,  actually  refreshed  himself  with  a 
short  nap !  that  the  maid  at  my  Lord  Oxford's  deposed 
that  in  the  frosty  winter  she  was  ousted  from  her  blessed 
bed  four  times  in  one  night  to  supply  Mr.  Pope  with  paper, 
lest  he  should  lose  a  thought !  They  may  be  assured  that 
he  punctually'  required  his  writing-box  to  be  set  upon  his 
bed  before  he  rose,  and  kept  the  poor  maids  and  footmen 
trotting  about  all  night,  while  like  Oliver  Twist  he  asked 
for  "more"  coffee  ;  that  he  wrote  the  Iliad  on  backs  of  let- 
ters to  save  paper,  and  was  therefore  nicknamed  ''  Paper- 
Saving  Pope ; "  and  that  his  once-adored  Lady  Mary 
contradicted  him  when  the}'  were  guests  at  my  Lord  Ox- 
ford's, and  they  quarrelled  and  quarrelled  till  one  or  the 
other  left  the  house. 

They  may  be  told  how  faithful  and  constant  was  his  love 
for  Mistress  Martha  Blount ;  and  when  in  illness  and  age 
she  neglected  him,  he  excused  her  "  human  frailtj- "  as  he 
terms  it,  and  cherished  her  still  in  his  noble,  constant 
heart;  how  he  delighted  in  his  garden,  his  ''  quincunx," 
and  his  vines,  and  made  unto  himself  a  grotto  adorned 
with  fossils, — a  place  of  silence  and  retreat  from  which 
cares  and  passions  should  be  excluded,  —  to  tlie  infinite 


POETS   OF  THE  ARTIFICIAL  SCHOOL.  215 

disgust  of  good,  social  tea-drinking  Dr.  Johnson,  who,  in 
majestic  contempt,  has  dubbed  Pope's  grotto  an  "  excava- 
tion ;  "  how  tenderly  he  loved  and  revered  his  venerable 
parents  ;  how  fond  and  faithful  he  was  to  his  friends,  true 
and  loving  to  the  last,  and  during  his  state  of  helpless 
decay,  was,  in  his  intervals  of  reason,  always  saying  some- 
thing kind  either  of  his  present  or  absent  friends,  so  that 
*'his  humanity"  is  said  to  have  "survived  his  reason;" 
but  let  us  — 

*•  No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 

(Where  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God." 

Of  the  same  school,  though  far  inferior  to  Pope,  both  in 
genius  and  moral  aim,  was  Matthew  Prior,  born  in  1664. 

Prior  was  of  humble  origin,  his  father  being  by  trade 
a  joiner.  Matthew,  by  his  father's  early  death,  was  left  to 
the  care  of  his  uncle,  a  vintner,  who  sent  him  for  a  time 
to  Westminster  School,  and  afterward  took  him  home  to 
assist  in  the  business  of  the  inn,  where  the  Earl  of  Dorset, 
a  celebrated  patron  of  genius,  chanced  to  find  him  reading 
Horace,  and  was  so  well  pleased  with  his  proficiency  that 
he  generously  undertook  the  care  and  cost  of  his  educa- 
tion ;  and  in  his  eighteenth  year  Prior  was  entered  at  St. 
John's  College,  Cambridge.  At  the  university  the  poet 
distinguished  himself;  the  Earl  continued  his  patronage, 
invited  him  to  London,  and  obtained  for  him  an  appoint- 
ment as  secretary  to  the  Earl  of  Berkeley.  In  this  capacity 
Prior  obtained  the  approbation  of  King  William,  who  made 
him  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  his  bedchamber. 

After  many  roj'al  honors  and  appointments  he  went  in 
1711,  with  Lord  Bolingbroke,  to  France,  to  negotiate  a 
treaty  of  peace.  His  public  dignity  and  splendor  was  now 
at  its  height.     A  favorite  of  the  French  monarch,  he  re- 


216  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

ceived  at  Paris  at  least  all  the  honors  of  an  ambassador, 
though  he  is  said  to  have  hinted  to  the  Queen,  in  an  im- 
perfect poem,  that  no  service  of  plate  had  been  allowed 
him  ;  and  it  appeared  hj  the  debts  he  contracted  that  his 
remittances  were  not  punctually  made.  Returning  to  Lon- 
don in  1715,  he  was  committed  to  prison  on  charge  of  high 
treason ;  this  accusation  against  the  poet  appears  to  have 
been  unjust,  and  after  two  years'  confinement,  he  was 
released  without  a  trial. 

Being  now  left  without  any  other  support  than  his  fellow- 
ship of  St.  John's  College,  he  continued  his  studies,  and 
published  by  subscription  a  collected  edition  of  his  poems, 
and  thus  reaUzed  the  sum  of  four  thousand  pounds.  An 
equal  sum  was  presented  to  him  by  the  Earl  of  Oxford, 
and  he  was  enabled  to  lay  up  for  old  age  that  provision 
for  comfort  and  private  enjoyment  which  he  desired. 
These,  however,  he  did  not  long  possess,  for  he  died  at 
fift3'-seven  in  the  j^ear  1721. 

Prior  was  not  a  scrupulous  poet,  and  has  sometimes 
overstepped  the  bounds  of  decency.  As  he  wrote,  so  he 
lived  ;  and  he  is  said  to  have  been  quite  willing  to  descend 
from  the  dignity  of  the  poet  and  statesman  to  the  low 
delights  of  mean  company.  The  Chloe  whom  he  celebrates 
in  verse,  and  at  whose  request  he  is  said  to  have  written 
his  "Henry  and  Emma,"  —  a  paraphrase  on  the  old 
ballad  of  the  "  Nut-Brown  Maid,"  and  not  so  good  as  the 
original,  —  was  an3'thing  but  a  poet's  ideal.  It  is  related 
of  Chloe  that  once,  in  her  lover's  absence,  she  decamped 
with  his  plate.  Not  at  all  disenchanted  b}^  this  disreputable 
proceeding.  Prior  forgave  her,  and  to  the  last  clung  to 
her  with  insane  tenderness.  Having  spent  the  evening 
*'  in  colloquy  sublime  "  with  Lords  Oxford  and  Boling- 
broke.  Pope  and  Swift,  Prior  would,  it  is  said,  go  and 
smoke  a  pipe,  and  drink  a  bottle  of  ale  with  a  common 


POETS  OF  THE  ARTIFICIAL  SCHOOL.  217 

soldier  and  his  wife  before  going  to  bed.  Though  a  wise 
statesman  and  an  elegant  poet,  his  life  was  sadly  debased 
by  irregularity  and  sensualit}^ 

As  a  poet  Prior  is  classed  among  the  agreeable  and 
accomplished,  who  sport  gayl}^  on  the  surface  of  existence, 
but  have  no  power  to  penetrate  its  depths.  His  works 
range  over  a  variety  of  style  and  subject,  —  as  odes,  songs, 
epistles,  ej^igrams,  and  tales.  His  longest  poem,  *'  Solo- 
mon," is  the  most  moral,  most  correctly  written,  and  Cow- 
per  has  considered  it  the  best  of  his  productions,  though 
his  tales  and  lighter  pieces  are  generally  considered  his 
happiest  efforts. 

He  possessed  in  the  highest  degree  the  art  of  graceful, 
fluent  versification.  His  expression  was  choice  and  studied, 
abounding  in  classical  allusions  and  images,  but  without 
any  air  of  pedantry  or  constraint.  He  has  been  paradoxi- 
cally termed  "the  most  natural  of  artificial  poets,"  thus 
proving  the  old  maxim  that  ' '  the  perfection  of  art  is  the 
concealment  of  it."  Of  Prior's  shorter  pieces  the  "Gar- 
land," though  perhaps  not  the  best,  is  in  sentiment  the 
purest :  — 

"  The  pride  of  every  grove  I  chose. 
The  violet  sweet  and  lily  fair, 
The  dappled  pink  and  blushing  rose, 
To  deck  my  charming  Chloe's  hair. 

"  At  morn  the  nymph  vouchsafed  to  place 
Upon  her  brow  the  various  wreath ; 
The  flowers  less  blooming  than  her  face. 
The  scent  less  fragrant  than  her  breath. 

"  The  flowers  she  wore  along  the  day, 
And  every  nymph  and  shepherd  said, 
That  in  her  hair  they  looked  more  gay 
Than  glowing  in  their  native  bed. 


218       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  Undressed  at  evening,  when  she  found 
Their  odours  lost,  their  colors  past, 
She  changed  her  look,  and  on  the  ground 
Her  garland  and  her  eyes  she  cast. 

"  That  eye  dropped  sense  distinct  and  cleax. 
As  any  muse's  tongue  could  speak, 
When  from  its  lid  a  pearly  tear 
Ran  trickling  down  her  beauteous  cheek. 

"  Dissembling  what  I  knew  too  well, 
'  My  love,  my  life,'  said  I,  '  explain 
This  change  of  humour ;  prithee  tell  — 
That  falling  tear  —  what  does  it  mean  1  * 

"  She  sighed,  she  smiled,  and  to  the  flowers 
Pointing,  the  lovely  mor'list  said, 
*  See,  friend,  in  some  few  fleeting  hours. 
See  yonder,  what  a  change  is  made. 

"  *  Ah  me !  the  blooming  pride  of  May 
And  that  of  beauty  are  but  one ; 
At  morn  both  flourish  bright  and  gay, 
Both  fade  at  evening,  pale,  and  gone.' " 

In  epigram  Prior  was  apt,  as  here,  — 

"  They  never  taste  who  always  drink  ; 
They  always  talk  who  never  think." 

The  most  artless  and  best  beloved  of  all  the  Pope  and 
Swift  circle  of  wits  and  poets  was  John  Gay,  born  in 
1688.  Gay*s  father  was  of  an  ancient  family  in  Oxford, 
but  being  in  reduced  circumstances,  he  apprenticed  his 
son  to  a  silk-mercer  in  London.  In  this  mercenary  em- 
ployment he  did  not  long  continue.  Like  most  of  the 
poets  of  the  day,  he  was  an  anxious  suitor  for  court 
favor ;  yet  though  he  became  secretary  to  the  Duchess  of 
Monmouth,  and  subsequently  to  Lord  Clarendon,  '*his 
genius,"  it  is  said,  "proved  his  best  patron." 


POETS   OF   THE  ARTIFICIAL  SCHOOL.  219 

Gay  has  the  wit  and  gaj-ety  of  Prior,  without  his  ele- 
gance. HazUtt  ranks  his  "Beggar's  Opera"  with  the 
most  refined  productions  in  the  language.  Its  moral  ten- 
dency can  scarcely  be  commended,  as  the  poet's  heroes  are 
thieves  and  highwaymen  ;  but  the  songs  and  music  and 
political  satire  in  the  piece  gave  it  great  success,  and  it 
had  a  run  of  sixty-three  nights,  and  was  "the  rage  of 
town  and  country." 

Gay  wrote  several  other  plays,  of  less  merit,  though 
more  profitable.  His  "  Polly,"  the  sequel  to  the  "  Beggar's 
Opera,"  brought  him  eleven  or  twelve  hundred  pounds. 
The  Duchess  of  Marlborough  gave  one  hundred  pounds  as 
her  subscription  for  a  copy !  Ga^^'s  "  Shepherd's  Week  " 
abounds  in  humor;  and  his  "Black-Eyed  Susan"  is  one 
of  our  finest  ballads.  His  fables,  though  surpassed  b}^  La 
Fontaine's,  are  the  best  in  our  language.  Swift's  friend- 
ship for  Gay  was  sincere  and  tender ;  and  Pope  held  him 
equally  dear,  and  has  thus  happily  characterized  him,  — 

"  Of  manners  gentle,  of  affections  mild ; 
In  wit  a  man,  simplicity  a  child." 

Of  Gay*s  fables,  "  The  Monkey,"  "  The  Fox  at  the 
Point  of  Death,"  and  "  The  Hare  with  many  Friends,"  are 
considered  the  best.  It  has  been  suggested  that  in  the 
latter  he  "  drew  from  his  own  experience." 

"  Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a  name 
Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 
The  child  whom  many  fathers  share, 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 
'T  is  thus  in  friendship ;  who  depend 
On  many,  rarely  find  a  friend. 

A  Hare,  who,  in  a  civil  way, 
Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train 
"Who  haunt  the  wood,  or  graze  the  plain. 
Her  care  was  never  to  offend. 


220       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 
As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn 
Behind  she  hears  the  hunter's  cries, 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies : 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath ; 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death ; 
She  doubles,  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  round ; 
Till,  fainting  in  the  public  way, 
Half  dead  with  fear  she  gasping  lay ; 
What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew. 
When  first  the  Horse  appeared  in  view  ! 

*  Let  me,'  says  she,  '  your  back  ascend, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend : 

You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight; 
To  friendship  every  burden  's  light. 
The  Horse  replied  :  *  Poor  honest  Puss, 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  thee  thus ; 
Be  comforted;  relief  is  near. 
For  all  your  friends  are  in  the  rear/ 

She  next  the  stately  Bull  implored, 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord  : 

*  Since  every  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offence  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. 
Love  calls  me  hence ;  a  favorite  cow 
Expects  me  near  yon  barley -mow ; 
And  when  a  lady's  in  the  case. 
You  know  all  other  things  give  place. 
To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind ; 
But  see,  the  Goat  is  just  behind.' 

The  Goat  remarked  her  pulse  was  high. 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye ; 

*  My  back,'  says  he,  *  may  do  you  harm ; 
The  Sheep  's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm.' 

The  Sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained ; 
Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears. 
For  hounds  eat  sheep,  as  well  as  hares. 


POETS   OF   THE   ARTIEICIAL  SCHOOL.  221 

She  now  the  trotting  Calf  addressed 
To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed. 
*  Shall  1/  says  he,  '  of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  care  engage  ? 
Older  and  abler  passed  you  by ; 
How  strong  are  those,  how  weak  am  I ! 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  3^ou  hence, 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  offence. 
Excuse  me,  then.     You  know  my  heart ; 
But  dearest  friends,  alas !  must  part. 
How  shall  we  all  lament !  adieu  ! 
For,  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view !  * " 

Gay  died  suddenly  in  1732. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  this  age  was  Jona- 
than Swift,  born  in  Dublin,  1667.  The  natural  force  and 
inventive  genius  displayed  by  Swift  in  his  prose  writings 
have  in  a  measure  obscured  his  reputation  as  a  poet,  though 
he  is  placed  by  critics  in  the  first  rank  of  agreeable  mor- 
alists in  verse.  Born  a  posthumous  child,  and  bred  up 
an  object  of  charit}^  the  want  and  dependence  with  which 
he  was  earh^  familiar  appear  to  have  sunk  deep  into  his 
soul.  He  early  adopted  the  custom  of  keeping  his  birthday 
as  a  day  of  mourning  rather  than  of  J03',  reading  ever 
upon  its  annual  recurrence  that  passage  from  Scripture 
in  which  Job  curses  the  day  upon  which  it  was  said  in 
his  father's  house  that  a  man-child  was  born. 

Swift  was  sent  by  his  uncle  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
which  he  left  in  his  twenty-first  year,  and  was  received 
into  the  house  of  Sir  William  Temple,  a  distant  relative 
of  his  mother.  Here  he  met  King  William,  and,  it  is  said, 
indulged  hopes  of  royal  preferment  which  were  never 
realized.  In  1692  he  took  orders  in  the  Irish  Church,  and 
we  afterward  find  him  living  as  an  obscure  countr}'  clergy- 
man on  a  salary  of  one  hundred  pounds,  subsequently^  as 
chaplain  and  secretary  to  the  Earl  of  Berkeley,  and  later 
rector  of  Laracor  in  Ireland. 


222       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


The  "  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask  "  was  not  more  inscru 
table  than  was  Swift  in  his  social  and  domestic  life.  His 
apparently  true  attachment  to  the  Stella  whom  he  has 
celebrated  in  verse  was  rendered  weird  and  unnatural  b}- 
his  determination  —  to  which  it  is  said  he  ever  strictlj- 
adhered  —  never  to  see  her  except  in  the  presence  of  a 
third  person.  Worn  out  at  last  with  the  cruel  scandal 
of  the  misjudging  world  that  treated  her  as  the  mistress 
of  the  man  who  had  secretl}-,  and  it  would  seem  grudg- 
ingly, married  her,  this  poor  lady  died  under  the  insane 
tyranny  of  one  who,  as  he  said,  "loved  her  better  than  his 
life  a  thousand  millions  of  times  !  "  "  Human  nature," 
says  one  of  his  critics,  "  has  perhaps  never  before  or 
since  presented  the  spectacle  of  a  man  of  such  transcen- 
dent powers  as  Swift  involved  in  such  a  pitiable  laby- 
rinth of  the  affections." 

During  his  residence  in  Ireland  he  had  engaged  the 
affections  of  another  j'oung  lady,  who,  under  the  name 
of  Vanessa,  rivalled  Stella  in  poetical  celebrity  and  in 
personal  misfortune.  There  is  nothing,  even  in  fiction, 
more  steeped  in  pathos  than  the  sad  story  of  this  poor  girl. 
Beautiful,  virtuous,  talented,  and  accomplished,  she  wor- 
shipped at  eighteen,  in  her  plain  tutor,  —  "a  gown  of  forty- 
four," —  her  (to  use  her  own  words)  *' guide,  instructor, 
lover,  friend."  That  she  might  breathe  the  same  air  with 
Swift,  she  removed  to  Ireland  as  Stella  had  done,  and 
submitting  herself  to  coldness  and  neglect,  lived,  like  lonely 
''  Mariana  in  the  moated  grange,"  a  life  of  the  deepest 
seclusion,  varied  onlj^  b}-  the  angel  visits  of  the  dean,  each 
of  which  she  commemorated  by  planting  with  her  own 
hand  a  laurel  in  the  garden  where  the}-  met. 

After  a  blameless  but  ill-judged  attachment  of  eight 
years,  when  all  her  agonizing  remonstrances,  her  devotion, 
and  her   offerings,  —  touching  beyond   expression,  —  had 


ru-    11 


I 


POETS  OF  THE   ARTIFICIAL   SCHOOL.  223 

failed,  she  was  struck  to  the  heart  by  the  cruel  assurance 
that  Swift  was  alread\'  the  husband  of  another.  She  sent 
him  the  repl}^  to  her  letter  of  interrogation  received  from 
Stella.  In  a  paroxysm  of  fury,  he  immediately  sought 
her  presence,  and  flinging  at  her  this  letter,  rode  fiercely 
to  Dublin.  This  ebullition  of  fury  was  her  death-warrant. 
She  survived  it  but  a  few  weeks.  In  her  will  she  ordered 
that  the  poem  of*'  Cadenus  and  Vanessa,"  in  which  Swift 
had  sung  their  friendship  and  her  praises,  should  be 
published. 

Alas !  since  the  day  when  the  poet  of  poets  made 
Titania  adore  Bottom,  women  have,  now  and  then,  wasted 
themselves  on  brutes.  Who  among  us  would  care  to  be 
celebrated  as  coarsel}',  and  held  as  cheaply  in  the  public 
eye,  as  is  Stella  in  these  birthday  verses  of  her  clownish- 
souled  husband  ? 

TO   STELLA  AT   THIRTY-SIX. 

All  travellers  at  first  incline 

Where'er  they  see  the  fairest  sign : 

And  if  they  find  the  chambers  neat, 

And  like  the  liquor  and  the  meat, 

Will  call  again,  and  recommend 

The  Angel  Inn  to  every  friend. 

What  though  the  painting  grows  decay'd, 

The  house  will  never  lose  its  trade. 

Nay,  though  the  treacherous  tapster,  Thomas, 

Hangs  a  new  Angel  two  doors  from  us. 

We  think  it  both  a  shame  and  sin, 
To  quit  the  true  old  Angel  Inn. 

Now  this  is  Stella's  case  in  fact. 
An  angel's  face  a  little  crack'd; 
Could  poets  or  could  painters  fix 
How  angels  look  at  thirty-six.  .  .  . 


224       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


Swift,  in  view  of  all  this,  has  been  unjustly  regarded  as 
a  diabolical  monster  of  cruelt}'  ;  for  charity  finds  the  ke}^- 
note  to  a  life  of  singular  inconsistenc}'  in  the  latent  in- 
sanit}'  which  must  then  have  been  lurking  in  his  frame, 
and  which,  as  we  know,  overcame  him  at  last.  His 
heart,  weaker  than  his  intellect,  must  have  sooner  felt 
its  ravages  ;  and  a  presentiment  of  his  fate  seems  to  have 
haunted  him  through  life.  After  various  attacks  of  deaf- 
ness and  giddiness,  his  temper  became  ungovernable,  and 
his  reason  gave  way.  "  The  stage  mercifully  darkened," 
says  Scott,  ''  before  the  curtain  fell ;  "  and  Swift's  almost 
total  silence  during  the  last  three  years  of  his  life  (for  the 
last  year  he  spoke  not  a  word)  was  the  last  appalling 
scene  in  the  strange  drama  of  a  life  whose  frailties  and 
errors  seem  to  have  been  but  the  natural  result  of  a  dis- 
eased mental  organization. 

Swift  died  on  the  19th  of  October,  1745,  and  was  buried 
in  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  amid  the  tears  and  prayers 
of  his  countr3'men.  His  fortune,  amounting  to  about  ten 
thousand  pounds,  he  left  chiefly  to  found  a  lunatic  as^'lum 
in  Dublin  ;  to  use  his  own  words,  — 

"  He  gave  the  little  wealth  he  had, 
To  build  a  house  for  fools  and  mad ; 
And  showed  by  one  satiric  touch. 
No  nation  needed  it  so  much." 

This  description  in  "  Baucis  and  Philemon  "  is  an  ex- 
ample of  Swift's  Dutch  art,  and  a  fair  specimen  of  his 
smooth  versification ;  it  is  a  part  of  the  account  of  the 
metamorphosis  of  their  cottage  :  — 

"  They  scarce  had  spoke,  when  fair  and  soft 
The  roof  began  to  mount  aloft ; 
Aloft  rose  every  beam  and  rafter; 
The  heavy  wall  climbed  slowly  after. 


POETS  OF  THE  ARTIFICIAL  SCHOOL.  _        225 

The  chimney  widened  and  grew  higher. 
Became  a  steeple  with  a  spire. 

The  kettle  to  the  top  was  hoist. 
And  there  stood  fasten'd  to  a  joist. 
But  with  the  upside  down  to  show 
Its  inclination  for  below : 
In  vain ;  for  a  superiour  force 
Apply'd  at  bottom  stops  its  course : 
Doomed  ever  in  suspense  to  dwell, 
'T  is  now  no  kettle,  but  a  bell. 

A  wooden  jack,  which  had  almost 
Lost  by  disuse  the  art  to  roast,  * 

A  sudden  alteration  feels, 
Increas'd  by  new  intestine  wheels ; 
And,  what  exalts  the  wonder  more, 

The  number  made  the  motion  slower.  ' 

The  flier,  though  it  had  leaden  feet, 
Turn'd  round  so  quick  you  scarce  could  see  't ; 
But,  slackened  by  some  secret  power, 
Now  hardly  moves  an  inch  an  hour. 
The  jack  and  chimney,  near  allied. 
Had  never  left  each  other's  side  : 
The  chimney  to  a  steeple  grown. 
The  jack  would  not  be  left  alone ; 
But,  up  against  the  steeple  rear'd. 
Became  a  clock,  and  still  adher'd ; 
And  still  its  love  to  household  cares. 
By  a  shrill  voice,  at  noon,  declares, 
"Warning  the  cookmaid  not  to  burn 
That  roast  meat  which  it  cannot  turn. 

The  groaning-chair  began  to  crawl 
Like  a  huge  snail  along  the  wall. 
There  stuck  aloft  in  public  view, 
And  with  small  change,  a  pulpit  grew. 

The  porringers,  that  in  a  row 
Hung  high,  and  made  a  glittering  show, 
To  a  less  noble  substance  chang'd 
"Were  now  but  leathern  buckets  rang'd. 

The  ballads,  pasted  on  the  wall, 
Of  Joan  of  France,  and  English  Moll, 
Fair  Rosamond,  and  Robinhood, 
15 


226  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

The  little  Children  in  the  Wood, 
Now  seem'd  to  look  abundance  better, 
Improv'd  in  picture,  size,  and  letter : 
And,  high  in  order  plac'd,  describe 
The  heraldry  of  every  tribe. 

A  bedstead  of  the  antique  mode. 
Compact  of  timber  many  a  load. 
Such  as  our  ancestors  did  use, 
Was  metamorphos'd  into  pews ; 
Which  stiU  their  ancient  nature  keep, 
By  lodging  folks  dispos'd  to  sleep. 
The  cottage,  by  such  feats  as  these 
Grown  to  a  church  by  just  degrees 
The  hermits  then  desir'd  their  host 
To  ask  for  what  he  fancied  most." 

As  a  poet  Swift  is  faithfully  minute  in  description ;  in 
satire  he  displays  rare  wit ;  his  versification  is  easy  and 
flowing.  He  is  often  repulsivel}'  gross  in  his  style  and 
subject,  and  always  "  of  tlie  earth,  earthy."  His  verses 
on  his  own  death  are  a  fine  example  of  his  pecuUar  poeti- 
cal vein,  —  a  mad  play  and  sparkle  of  ironic  wit  blent  with 
a  homely  and  heart-felt  pathos.  The  purity  of  his  prose 
style  renders  it  a  model  of  English  composition.  '^  The 
Tale  of  a  Tub,"  and  ''  Gulliver's  Travels,"  rather  than  his 
poems,  are  the  chief  corner-stones  of  his  fame. 

If  poetry  is  indeed  but  an  endeavor  of  the  soul  to  es- 
cape from  the  persecution  of  realities  into  that  golden 
clime,  the  enchanted  land  of  Fancy,  the  latter  composi- 
tion is,  in  conception,  a  poem.  Swift  is  considered  the 
most  masculine  genius  of  his  age  and  the  most  earnest 
thinker  of  a  time  when  there  was  less  earnest  and  deep 
thinking  in  England  than  in  any  era  of  our  literature. 

Of  Addison  it  may  also  be  said  that  his  prose  was  the 
chief  source  of  his  fame  ;  he  wanted  both  the  fancy  and  fire 
of  the  poet,  though  through  his  muse  he  first  won  distinc- 
tion.    He  was  the  son  of  an  English  dean,  and  born  in 


POETS   OF  THE   ARTIFICIAL  SCHOOL.  227 

1672.  At  Oxford  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  Latin 
poetiy,  and  subsequently,  by  a  poem  to  his  Majest}^  pre- 
sented by  the  Lord-Keeper,  he  obtained  a  pension  which 
enabled  him  to  make  the  tour  of  Italy,  from  whence  he 
wrote  his  "Poetical  Letter,"  considered  the  most  elegant 
and  animated  of  all  the  productions  of  his  muse.  The 
death  of  King  William  deprived  him  of  his  pension ;  but 
he  afterward  won  court  favor  by  celebrating  in  verse  the 
battle  of  Blenheim,  and  was  made  Under-Secretary  of 
State,  as  well  as  Keeper  of  the  Records  in  Ireland. 

Addison  received  his  highest  political  honor  in  1717, 
when  he  was  made  Secretary  of  State.  Wanting  the  phy- 
sical boldness  of  an  effective  public  speaker,  he  was  un- 
able to  defend  his  measures  in  Parliament,  and  his  critical 
nicety  and  fastidiousness  rendered  him  unfit  for  the 
prompt  discharge  of  the  ordinary  duties  of  the  office.  It 
is  said  that  when,  as  under- secretary,  he  was  employed  to 
send  word  to  Prince  George,  at  Hanover,  of  the  death  of 
Queen  Anne  and  the  vacanc}'  of  the  throne,  he  was  so 
distracted  by  the  choice  of  expression  that  the  task  was 
given  to  a  clerk,  who  boasted  of  having  done  "  what  was 
too  hard  for  Addison." 

The  poet  held  the  oflSce  of  secretary  but  a  short 
time,  retiring  with  a  pension  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds. 
He  died  in  1719,  "calmly  and  religiousl}^  resigning  a 
life  which,  though  not  long,  had  been  well  spent."  His 
friend  Tickell  has  thus  commended  his  virtue  and 
worth :  — 

"  He  taught  us  how  to  live ;  and,  oh  !  too  high 
The  price  of  knowledge !  taught  us  how  to  die." 

"  Addison  had,"  says  Steele,  "  that  remarkable  bashful- 
ness  which  is  a  cloak  that  muffles  and  hides  true  merit." 
Chesterfield  calls  him  "  the  most  timorous  and  awkward  of 


228  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


men ; "  and  he  himself  thus  bears  testimony  to  his  own 
backwardness  in  conversation:  "I  could  draw  bills,"  he 
says,  ^'  for  a  thousand  pounds,  yet  I  had  not  a  guinea  in 
my  pocket."  In  familiar  and  unrestrained  intercourse 
''his  conversation,"  says  Pope,  "has  in  it  something 
more  charming  than  I  have  found  in  any  other  man." 

It  has  been  suggested  that  Addison  was  first  led  to  ex- 
cess in  wine  —  his  only  moral  weakness  —  by  a  desire  to 
set  loose  his  tongue.  This  propensity  was  unfortunately 
aggravated  by  his  unhappy  marriage  with  the  mean  Coun- 
tess of  Warwick,  who  treated  him  more  as  a  slave  than  a 
husband  ;  and  like  man}^  another,  he  at  last  sought  in  the 
wine-cup  a  Lethe  for  domestic  discontent.  It  has  been 
justly  remarked  that  "the  uniform  tendency  of  all  his 
writings  is  his  best  and  highest  eulogium,"  and  that  "  the 
impression  made  by  them  is  Hke  being  recalled  to  a  sense 
of  something  akin  to  that  original  purit}-  from  which  man 
has  long  been  estranged."  His  hymns,  by  their  unaffected 
piety  and  elegance,  commend  themselves  alike  to  the  re- 
ligious and  the  critical. 

In  1713  his  tragedy  of  "  Cato  "  was  brought  on  the 
stage.  Addison's  genius  was  not  dramatic ;  and  though 
"Cato"  abounds  in  lofty  sentiments,  contains  passages 
of  great  moral  beauty  and  dignit}^,  preserves  the  unities  of 
time  and  place,  and  has  been  commended  for  sonorous 
diction,  it  is  still  marble  cold,  —  a  graceful  and  majestic 
work  of  art,  but  lifeless  and  fair  as  some  fine  antique  statue. 
There  is  more  of  the  fervor  and  fire  of  true  dramatic  genius 
in  a  single  page  of  "  Othello  "  than  can  be  found  in  the 
entire  play  of  "  Cato."  In  its  own  way,  however,  it  is 
probably  unrivalled.  It  is  one  of  the  few  English  tragedies 
that  foreigners  have  admired.  The  French  have  even 
placed  it  before  "  Macbeth."  It  was  translated  into  that 
language  and  performed  by  the  Jesuits  in  their  college  at 


1 


POETS   OF  THE  ARTIFICIAL   SCHOOL.  229 

St.  Omers,  and  also  rendered  into  Italian  and  German. 
As  a  prose- writer  Addison  may  claim  the  merit  of  correct- 
ing our  language,  and  effecting  a  revolution  in  our  litera- 
ture by  modelling  a  pure  English  style  ;  and  he  must  be 
allowed  the  still  higher  praise  of  having  elevated  the  taste 
and  increased  the  piety,  philanthropy,  and  refinement  of 
his  age.  In  Queen  Anne's  blessed  time  poetry  was  not, 
as  now,  like  virtue,  its  own  reward.  It  had  its  soUd  and 
tangible  emoluments.  For  this  single  simile  of  Addison's 
in  the  ''  Battle  of  Blenheim,"  he  was  made  Commissioner 
of  Appeals  on  the  spot,  the  Lord  Treasurer's  admiration 
of  the  poem  being  so  enthusiastic  that  he  could  not  even 
wait  for  its  completion  before  rewarding  the  poet  for 
these  lucky  lines, — 

"  So,  when  an  angel,  by  divine  command, 
With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land, 
Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  passed, 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast. 
And,  pleased  th'  Almighty's  orders  to  perform, 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm." 

Smooth  and  elegant  as  these  lines  are,  we  have,  I  think, 
seen  better  work  of  the  same  sort  done  for  less  pa}^ ;  it  is, 
however,  no  doubt,  reassuring  to  be  informed  that  our 
battles  are  heaven-directed,  however  questionable  we  find 
the  assertion. 

The  dramatic  literature  of  this  period  was,  like  its 
general  poetry,  polished  and  artificial.  In  tragedy  the 
highest  name  is  that  of  Southerne,  who,  though  his  lan- 
guage is  feeble  compared  with  that  of  the  great  drama- 
tists, and  his  general  style  low  and  unimpressive,  may 
claim  with  Otway  the  power  of  touching  the  passions. 
Addison's  "  Cato,"  it  may  be  observed,  is  more  properly 
a  classic  poem  than  a  drama. 

The  vigorous  exposure  of  the  immorality  of  the  stage 


230       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

b}^  Jeremy  Collier,  and  the  essays  of  Steele  and  Addison 
now  improving  the  taste  and  moral  feeling  of  the  public, 
a  partial  reformation  took  place  in  the  drama,  which  the 
Restoration  had  introduced ;  but  even  at  the  representa- 
tion of  these  improved  plan's  it  is  asserted  that  ladies  still 
had  occasion  to  wear  masks,  as  they  usually  did  on  the 
first  days  of  acting  a  new  pla}'.  In  comedy  the  highest 
name  of  this  period  is  that  of  Congreve,  bom  in  Ireland, 
1670.  He  was  of  a  good  family,  studied  law,  but  began 
early  to  write  for  the  stage.  His  ''  Old  Bachelor,"  pro- 
duced in  his  twenty-first  year,  was  acted  with  great  ap- 
plause. His  life  was  a  happy  and  prosperous  one.  A 
complaint  in  the  ej^es  afl9icted  him  in  his  latter  days,  which 
finally  terminated  in  blindness.     He  died  in  1729. 

Dry  den  complimented  Congreve  as  ' '  one  whom  every 
muse  and  grace  adorned ; "  and  Pope  dedicated  to  him 
his  translation  of  the  Iliad. 

We  must  not  omit  one  remarkable  incident  in  the  life  of 
Congreve,  —  his  apparently  blameless  intimac}"  with  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  at  whose  table  he  sat  daily, 
regaling  her  Highness  with  his  conversation  and  amiably 
assisting  in  her  household  management.  On  his  death  he 
left  the  bulk  of  his  fortune,  amounting  to  about  ten  thou- 
sand pounds,  to  this  eccentric  lady.  Her  Grace  laid  out 
her  friend's  bequest  in  a  superb  diamond  necklace,  which 
she  wore  in  honor  of  him ;  and  report  says  she  honored 
his  memory  in  waj's  much  more  extraordinary.  It  is 
aflSrmed  that  her  Ladyship  had  a  statue  of  the  deceased 
poet  in  Ivor}',  which  moved  by  clockwork,  and  was  placed 
daily  at  her  table ;  and  moreover  that  the  good  woman 
had  a  wax  doll  made  in  imitation  of  him,  and  that  to 
render  the  illusion  complete,  the  feet  of  this  doll  were 
regularly  blistered  and  anointed  by  the  doctors,  as  poor 
Congreve's  feet  had  been  when  he  suffered  from  the  gout. 


POETS  OF  THE  ARTIFICIAL  SCHOOL.  231 

Posterity  has  not  awarded  to  Congreve  the  high  place 
in  literature  which  the  glittering  artificial  school  allowed 
him.  Brilliant  in  dialogue  and  repartee,  exuberant  in 
dramatic  incident  and  character,  he  has  still  but  few 
charms  to  the  genuine  lovers  of  the  natural  and  the  true, 
and  is  not  recommended  by  any  moral  purpose  or  senti- 
ment. One  line  in  his  tragedy  of  the  '*  Mourning  Bride  " 
has  been  often  quoted :  — 

"  Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  a  savage  breast." 

The  age  now  under  notice  derives  perhaps  greater  lus- 
tre from  its  essayists  than  from  its  poets  and  dramatists. 
Papers  containing  news  had  been  established  in  London 
and  other  large  cities,  since  the  time  of  the  Civil  War,  but 
the  idea  of  issuing  a  periodical  sheet,  commenting  on  the 
events  of  private  life  and  the  dispositions  of  ordinary 
men,  was  never  before  entertained  either  in  England  or 
elsewhere.  The  credit  of  beginning  this  new  and  peculiar 
kind  of  literature  is  due  to  Sir  Richard  Steele,  who  first 
conceived  the  idea  of  attacking  the  vices  and  foibles  of 
the  age  through  the  medium  of  a  hvely  periodical  paper, 
and  accordingly  commenced  the  publication  of  the 
"  Tatler,"  a  small  sheet  designed  to  appear  three  times  a 
week,  a  part  of  each  paper  —  to  conciliate  the  news-lover 
—  being  devoted  to  public  and  political  intelligence.  The 
"Tatler"  was  in  1711  merged  in  the  more  celebrated 
"  Spectator  "  (subsequently  superseded  by  the  "  Guardian  "), 
which  appeared  every  morning  in  the  shape  of  a  single 
leaf  and  invariably  without  any  admixture  of  politics, 
and  was  received  at  the  breakfast-tables  of  most  persons 
of  taste  then  living  in  the  metropolis.  Steele  contributed 
the  greater  part  of  the  hght  and  humorous  sketches  ;  Ad- 
dison most  of  the  articles  in  which  there  is  an}'  grave  re- 
flection or  elevated  feeling.    The  beneficial  influence  of 


232  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

this  form  of  literature  on  the  morality,  piety,  manners, 
and  intelligence  of  the  British  people  has  been  extensive 
and  permanent;  and  to  the  circulation  of  these  papers 
may  also  be  ascribed  the  beginning  of  a  just  taste  in  the 
fields  of  fancy  and  picturesque  beaut}'.  "From  the  peru-  II 
sal  of  these  essays,"  says  Dr.  Drake,  ''  that  large  body  of 
the  people  included  in  the  middle  class  of  society  first 
derived  their  capability  of  judging  of  the  merits  of  a  re- 
fined writer ;  and  the  nation  at  large  gradually  from  this 
epoch  became  entitled  to  the  distinguishing  appellations 
of  literary  and  critical." 

Notwithstanding  the  high  excellence  which  must  be 
attributed  to  the  British  essayists,  we  cannot  accord  to 
them  that  philosophic  depth,  that  comprehensiveness  and 
originality  which  since  the  age  of  Queen  Anne  has  come 
into  request.  And  though  the  poets  of  the  age  may  have 
corrected  the  indecencies  introduced  at  the  Restoration, 
they  are  deficient  in  force  or  greatness  of  fancy  and  in 
those  natural  graces  of  pathos  and  enthusiasm  which  are 
the  life-blood  of  true  poetry. 


I 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.      233 


CHAPTER  XII. 

YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  MINOR  POETS, 
AND  COWPER. 

THE  j5ft3'-three  years  between  1727  and  1780,  embrac- 
ing the  reign  of  George  II.  and  a  portion  of  the 
reign  of  George  III.,  was  not  marked  by  such  striking 
features  of  originality  or  vigor  as  some  of  the  preceding 
eras  ;  yet  it  produced  more  men  of  letters,  as  well  as  more 
men  of  science,  than  any  epoch  of  similar  extent  in  the 
literary  historj^  of  England.  It  was  also  a  time  during 
which  greater  progress  was  made  in  diffusing  literature 
among  the  people  at  large  than  had  been  made  perhaps 
throughout  all  the  ages  that  went  before  it. 

The  publication  of  Percy's  ''Reliques"  and  Warton's 
**  History  of  Poetry,"  by  directing  public  attention  to  the 
early  writers  and  showing  the  powerful  effects  which  could 
be  produced  by  simple  narrative  and  natural  emotion  in 
verse,  had  sown  the  seed  which  was  to  germinate  in  the 
next  generation,  when  Cowper  should  complete  what 
Thomson  had  begun.  A  sort  of  successor,  under  the 
reign  of  Pope,  of  the  Donnes  and  Cowley s  of  a  former 
age,  was  the  author  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts,"  having 
**  Donne's  conceits  without  his  subtle  fancy,  the  quibbles 
and  contortions  of  Cowley  without  his  elegance,  playful- 
ness, and  gayety." 

Dr.  Edward  Young,  born  in  1684,  was  educated  at 
Oxford ;  and  in  1712  he  commenced  public  life  as  a  court- 


234  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

ier  and  poet,  and  in  both  characters  he  figures  till  past 
eighty.  In  his  youth  Young  was  gay  and  dissipated. 
The  dissolute  and  notorious  Duke  of  Wharton,  who  was, 
it  is  said,  "  the  scorn  and  wonder  of  his  da}',"  was  his 
patron  and  companion.  When  upward  of  fifty  he  entered 
the  Church,  wrote  a  panegyric  on  the  King,  and  was  made 
one  of  his  Majesty's  chaplains,  and,  as  Swift  has  it,  was 

thus  — 

"  Compelled  to  torture  his  invention, 
To  flatter  knaves,  or  lose  his  pension." 

In  1730  the  poet  obtained  from  his  college  the  living  of 
Welwyn,  in  Hertfordshire,  where  he  was  destined  to  close 
his  days.  He  was,  all  his  life  long,  an  indefatigable 
courtier,  and  was  eager  to  obtain  royal  preferment;  but 
having  unluckily  professed  in  his  poetry  a  strong  love  of 
retirement,  the  ministry,  it  is  said,  seized  upon  this  as  a 
pretext  for  keeping  him  out  of  a  bishopric. 

In  1731  Young  married  Lady  Ehzabeth  Lee,  daughter 
of  the  Earl  of  Lichfield,  and  widow  of  Colonel  Lee  ;  this 
ambitious  alliance  proved  a  happier  union  than  the  titled 
marriages  of  Dryden  and  Addison.  By  her  first  marriage 
the  lady  had  two  children,  to  whom  Young  was  warmly 
attached;  both  died,  and  when  in  1741,  ten  j'ears  after 
their  marriage,  the  mother  also  followed,  Young  produced 
the  ''  Night  Thoughts." 

This  long  poem,  founded  on  family  misfortune,  colored 
and  exaggerated  for  poetical  effect,  "  shows,"  as  has  been 
remarked,  "  the  poetical  artist  fully  as  much  as  the 
humble  and  penitent  Christian."  Swift  had  asserted  that 
hypocrisj'  was  less  mischievous  than  open  impiety,  3et 
no  man  had  a  greater  di*ead  of  this  sin  than  he ;  and  it 
has  been  said  of  him  that  "instead  of  wishing  to  seem 
better,  he  contrived  ever  to  seem  worse,  than  he  reall}'  was, 
and  not  only  carefully  hid  the  good  he  did,  but  willingly 


I 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     235 

incurred  the  suspicion  of  evil  which  he  did  not."  The 
character  of  Young  affords  the  most  striking  contrast  to 
that  of  Swift.  In  his  poetry  he  is  a  severe  moralist  and 
ascetic  divine,  yet  it  can  hardl}^  be  inferred  that  he  felt 
the  emotions  he  described,  as  they  seem  not  to  have  in- 
fluenced his  conduct.  After  a  youth  of  dissipation  and  a 
manhood  of  bustling  ambition,  we  find  him  unweaned  from 
the  world  till  age  has  incapacitated  him  for  its  pursuits. 
In  1761  he  was  made  Clerk  of  the  Closet  to  the  Princess 
Dowager  of  Wales,  and  died  four  years  afterward,  in 
April,  1765. 

Of  Young's  numerous  works,  "  The  Night  Thoughts," 
"  The  Universal  Passion,"  and  the  traged^'of  "  Revenge," 
are  thought  to  be  the  best.  "  This  poet,"  as  Hazlitt 
observes,  "  has  been  overrated,  from  the  popularity  of  his 
subject,  and  the  glitter  and  lofty  pretensions  of  his  style." 
He  is  all  art  and  effort,  and  though  in  his  *'  Night 
Thoughts"  we  find  poetical  imagery,  sound  maxims,  and 
passages  of  great  force,  it  is  a  poem  that  few  care  to 
peruse  continuously.  With  all  its  epigrammatic  point  and 
wit,  its  religious  sentiment  is  morbid  and  unwholesome ; 
and  the  gloomy  "snews  it  presents  of  life,  even  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge  with  all  her  ''  contrairy  "  experiences  could  scarcely 
be  justified  in  indulging.  Its  want  of  plot  and  progressive 
interest,  combined  with  its  tedious  length;  the  tenacity 
with  which  the  poet  holds  on  to  his  illustrations,  —  only 
equalled  by  the  twenty-seventhlies  in  the  good  old  ser- 
mons, —  are  a  weariness  to  flesh  and  spirit.  In  epic 
poetry,  where  the  interest  is  sustained  by  action,  long 
stories  may  be  tolerated ;  but  sermons,  either  poetical  or 
prosaic,  lose  in  pith,  as  they  gain  in  *'  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out."  "Young,"  says  Hazlitt,  *'has  false 
ornament,  labored  conceit,  false  fancy,  false  sublimit^-, 
and  mock  tenderness."     Yet  we  must  still  accord  to  him 


236  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

genius  and  true  poetical  inspiration.  His  verse  has  been 
aptly  termed, — 

"  The  glorious  fragments  of  a  fire  immortal 
With  rubbish  mixed,  and  glittering  in  the  dust." 

One   of    the   most  poetical  passages   in   the   *'  Night 
Thoughts"  is  this  apostrophe  to  Night:  — 

"  And  art  thou  still  unsung, 
Beneath  whose  brow,  and  by  whose  aid,  I  sing  ? 
Immortal  silence !  where  shall  I  begin  ? 
Where  end  1  or  how  steal  music  from  the  spheres 
To  soothe  their  goddess  ? 

Oh  majestic  Night ! 
Nature's  great  ancestor !    Day's  elder  born ! 
And  fated  to  survive  the  transient  sun ! 
By  mortals  and  immortals  seen  with  awe ! 
A  starry  crown  thy  raven  brow  adorns, 
An  azure  zone  thy  waist ;  clouds,  in  Heaven's  loom 
Wrought  through  variety  of  shape  and  shade, 
In  ample  folds  of  drapery  divine. 
Thy  flowing  mantle  form,  and,  heaven  throughout, 
Voluminously  pour  thy  pompous  train  : 
Thy  gloomy  grandeurs,  Nature's  most  august 
Inspiring  aspect !     Claim  a  grateful  verse ; 
And,  like  a  sable  curtain  starred  with  gold, 
Drawn  o'er  my  labors  past,  shall  clothe  the  scene." 

This  apostrophe  has  been  called  **  magnificent,"  and  said 
*'  scarcel}^  to  be  equalled  in  English  poetr}^  since  the  epic 
strains  of  Milton."  This  seems  now  exaggerated  praise. 
The  same  fine  poetic  conception,  rendered  in  simple,  natu- 
ral, and  concise  stj'le,  and  irradiated  by  a  hopeful,  helpful 
philosophy,  would  have  been  far  more  admirable ;  as  we 
shall  see  by  turning  to  these  fine  stanzas  from  Longfellow's 
"  Hymn  to  the  Night "  :  — 

"  I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might. 
Stoop  o'er  me  from  above : 
The  calm  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 
As  of  the  one  I  love. 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.      237 

"  0  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 
What  man  hath  borne  before : 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 
And  they  complain  no  more." 

As  Young  was  all  art  and  effort,  Thomson  was  all  neg- 
ligence and  Nature,  pouring  forth  his  "unpremeditated 
la}' "  with  the  wild  luxuriance  of  the  bird  in  the  green- 
wood, —  Nature's  thriftless  prodigal,  showering  with  lavish 
melody  the  heedless  air,  careless  of  a  listening  ear. 

James  Thomson  was  born  at  Ednam  near  Kelso,  County 
of  Roxburgh,  September,  1700.  His  father,  then  minister 
of  the  parish  of  Ednam,  removed  a  few  years  afterward  to 
that  of  South-dean  in  the  same  county,  —  a  primitive  and 
retired  district  situated  among  the  lower  slopes  of  the 
Cheviots.  Here  the  j'oung  poet  spent  his  boyish  years. 
At  eighteen  he  was  sent  to  Edinburgh  College.  His 
father  died  when  he  had  passed  but  two  years  there,  and 
the  poet  proceeded  to  London,  to  push  his  fortunes.  A 
friend  procured  him  the  situation  of  tutor  to  the  son  of 
Lord  Binney ;  and  he  was  now  advised  to  connect  some 
of  his  descriptions  of  winter  into  one  regular  poem.  This 
was  done,  and  "Winter"  (the  cop3Tight  sold  for  only 
three  guineas)  was  pubHshed  in  March,  1726. 

The  poem  was  immediately  popular,  and  a  second  and 
third  edition  appeared  the  same  year.  In  1727  "Sum- 
mer "  appeared  ;  and  the  following  year  Thomson  issued 
proposals  for  publishing  by  subscription  the  "Four  Sea- 
sons." The  number  of  subscribers,  at  a  guinea  each 
cop3^  was  three  hundred  and  eight3'-seven,  but  many  took 
more  than  one  copy  ;  and  Pope,  it  is  said,  showed  his  gen- 
erous appreciation  of  the  poet  who  of  all  his  cotemporaries 
was  perhaps  most  directlj^  his  antipodes,  by  taking  three 
copies. 

In  1731  Thomson,  in  the  capacit}^  of  tutor,  or  travelling 


238       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


companion,  had  the  good  fortune  to  visit  France,  Switzer- 
land, and  Italy.  On  his  return,  he  published  his  poem  of 
''  Libert}^,"  and  obtained  a  situation  as  secretary,  which 
he  is  said  with  his  characteristic  indolence  to  have  lost  at 
last  by  failing  to  solicit  a  continuation  of  the  office.  His 
circumstances  were  at  length  brightened  by  a  3'earl3'  pen- 
sion of  one  hundred  pounds  from  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and 
an  appointment  to  the  office  of  Survej-or-General  of  the 
Leeward  Islands,  the  duties  of  which  he  was  allowed  to 
perform  by  deputy,  and  which  brought  an  annual  income 
of  three  hundred  pounds. 

The  poet  now  resided  in  comparative  opulence  at  Kew- 
lane,  near  Richmond,  where  his  domain  is  said  to  have 
been  "the  scene  of  social  enjoyment  and  luxurious  ease." 
Thomson  appears  to  have  been  utterly  devoid  of  that 
predilection  for  a  garret  commonlj^  ascribed  to  poets. 

His  cottage  at  Kewlane  —  a  very  Castle  of  Indolence 
—  is  described  as  elegantly  furnished,  with  spacious 
grounds,  and  ample  cellar,  which  after  his  death  was 
found  well-stocked  with  wines  and  good  Scotch  ale.  In 
this  comfortable  and  elegant  retreat,  where  ''retirement 
and  Nature"  are  said  to  have  "become  more  and  more 
his  passion  every  day,"  he  died  suddenly,  in  August, 
1748. 

Thomson  is  the  best  of  our  descriptive  poets ;  and  in 
the  "Seasons"  his  subject  —  comprehensible  and  inter- 
esting both  to  the  ignorant  and  refined  —  renders  him  the 
most  popular  of  poets.  In  describing  a  landscape  he 
transfers  to  the  imagination  of  his  readers  the  vivid  im- 
pression which  as  a  whole  it  makes  upon  his  mind,  rather 
than  the  minute  inventory  of  objects  which,  however  per- 
fect, cannot  fail  to  weary  the  mind  of  the  reader.  '^  Thom- 
son," says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  thinks  in  a  peculiar  train,  and 
he  thinks  always  as  a  man  of  genius  ;  he  looks  around  on 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     239 

Nature  and  on  life  with  the  eye  which  Nature  bestows  only 
on  a  poet,  and  with  a  mind  that  at  once  comprehends  the 
vast,  and  attends  to  the  minute."  To  this  well-expressed 
encomium  another  critic  happily  adds  :  "  He  looks  also  with 
a  heart  that  feels  for  all  mankind.  His  sympathies  are 
universal.  His  touching  description  of  the  peasant  perish- 
ing in  the  snow,  the  Siberian  exile,  or  the  Arab  pilgrims, 
are  all  marked  with  that  humanity  and  true  feeling  which 
show  that  the  poet's  virtues  formed  the  magic  of  his  song." 
Thomson  was  a  born  poet.  Critics  have  allowed  him  in- 
vention, fancy,  wit,  and  humor  of  the  most  voluptuous 
kind.  "  His  faults,"  it  has  been  aptly  said,  "  were  those 
of  his  style.  He  is  often  inelegant,  and  his  diction  is  at 
times  too  gaudy  and  ornamental ;  but  the  original  genius 
of  the  poet,  the  pith  and  marrow  of  his  imagination,  the 
fine  natural  mould  in  which  his  feelings  were  bedded,  were 
too  much  for  him  to  counteract  by  neglect  or  affectation 
or  false  ornaments." 

In  the  drama  Thomson  failed.  "  Agamemnon,"  his 
tragedy,  we  are  told,  was  "  only  endured."  It  struggled 
with  great  difficulty  through  the  first  night  We  have  a 
ludicrous  picture  of  the  author  on  that  hapless  night  ap- 
pearing in  panting  haste  before  some  friends  with  whom 
he  was  to  sup,  and  pitiably  excusing  his  delay  by  relating 
how  at  the  play  the  anguish  of  his  soul  had  broken  out  in 
perspiration,  and  had  so  disordered  his  wig  as  to  render 
him  unpresentable  till  he  had  been  refitted  by  a  barber. 

On  his  poem  of  "  Liberty  "  Thomson  is  said  to  have 
spent  two  years,  but  his  best  two  productions  are  '*  The 
Castle  of  Indolence  "  and  "  The  Seasons."  *'  The  Sea- 
sons "  abounds  in  fine  passages  ;  perhaps  the  most  striking 
are  the  description  of  the  contagion  among  the  ships  at 
Carthage  and  that  of  the  caravan  at  Mecca.  This  bit  from 
*'  Summer  "  is  an  example  of  the  poet's  happy  diction  : 


240       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  Among  the  crooked  lanes,  on  every  hedge, 
The  glow-worm  lights  his  gem ;  and  through  the  dark 
A  moving  radiance  twinkles.     Evening  yields 
The  world  to  night ;  not  in  her  winter  robe 
Of  massy  Stygian  woof,  but  loose  arrayed 
In  mantle  dun  .  .  . 

.  .  .  leading  soft 
The  silent  hours  of  love,  with  purest  ray 
Sweet  Venus  shines.  .  .  .  The  fairest  lamp  of  night.'' 

Thomson's  "  Castle  of  Indolence"  has  in  it  more  pure 
poesy  than  the  '^  Seasons,"  and  is  consequently  less 
widely  popular,  though  some  critics  have  considered  it 
his  best  poem.  The  materials  of  this  exquisite  poem  he 
is  said  to  have  derived  originally  from  Tasso,  though 
from  the  marked  similarity  between  it  and  the  "  Faery 
Queen,"  the  direct  inspiration  of  the  poet  might  seem  to 
have  been  drawn  from  Spenser.  Thomson,  though  less 
elegant,  had  the  same  luxuriant  exuberance  that  char- 
acterizes the  elder  poet,  and  it  is  the  true  source  of  his 
power.  *'  The  Castle  of  Indolence  "  was  a  poem  after  his 
own  heart.  Here  he  finds  a  subject  entirely  in  unison  with 
his  own  listless  temper ;  and  the  description  of  this  lux- 
urious palace  of  ease,  with  its  lotos-eating  inmates,  is 
indeed  perfect  and  delightful,  doing  equal  honor  to  the 
genius  and  the  supreme  laziness  of  the  poet  who  has  been 
seen  eating  peaches  off  a  tree,  with  both  hands  in  his 
waistcoat  pockets !     Thus,  in  numbers  that 

"  Softer  fall  than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass," 

he  describes  that  restful  "  lovely  spot  of  ground  "  whereon 
he  built  his  ''Castle,"  — 

"  Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest : 
Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between ; 
And  flowery  beds  that  slumb'rous  influence  kest, 
From  poppies  breathed;  and  beds  of  pleasant  green. 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.      241 

Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime  unnumbered  glittering  streamlets  played. 
And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters'  sheen ; 
That,  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny  glade, 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling  murmur  made. 

**  Joined  to  the  prattling  of  the  purling  rills, 
"Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  valo, 
And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  distant  hills. 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  : 
And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail, 
Or  stock-doves  "plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale ; 
And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep ; 
Yet  all  these  sounds  y'blent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

**  Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 

A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood, 

Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  was  seen  to  move, 

As  Idlesse  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood : 

And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 

Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and  fro. 

Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the  blood ; 

And  where  this  valley  winded  out  below, 
The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely  heard,  to  flow. 

"  A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was. 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye : 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass. 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer-sky  : 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast. 
And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hovered  nigh ; 
But  whate'er  smacked  of  'noyance  or  unrest. 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest." 

Thomson  received  his  highest  praise  in  the  prologue  to 
his  posthumons  tragedy,  *'  Coriolanus."  **  His  works," 
said  Lord  Lyttleton,  "  contain  no  line  which  dying  he 
could  wish  to  blot." 

Worthy  of  notice  among  the  minor  poets  of  this  era  is 

16 


242       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Akenside,  author  of  the  ''  Pleasures  of  Imagination,"  a 
poet  of  taste  and  genius,  and  Beattie,  whose  fame  rests 
upon  his  unfinished  poem,  "  The  Minstrel/'  —  a  composi- 
tion which  has  been  commended  for  the  correctness  of  its 
style  and  the  genius  displayed  in  it,  though  in  our  day  it 
is  but  little  read. 

In  this  age  lived  and  wrote  the  sacred  bard,  Dr.  Watts, 
whose  poetr}',  consisting  almost  wholl}"  of  the  fine  devo- 
tional hymns  so  well  known,  will  ever  give  his  name  a 
place  in  the  annals  of  our  literature.  These  hj-mns  are,  it 
is  true,  unequal  in  merit,  yet  the  best  of  them  as  sacred 
lyrics  have  never  been  excelled  ;  and  when,  inspired  by  the 
grandeur  of  his  subject  and  elevated  by  pure  religious  fer- 
vor, he  forgets  the  narrow  dogmas  of  creed  in  expansive 
and  sublime  conceptions  of  the  Infinite,  nothing  can  excel 
in  grandeur  and  majest}'  his  inspired  numbers,  as  in  stanzas 
like  this,  — 

**  Our  lives  through  various  scenes  are  drawn, 

And  vexed  with  trifling  cares  ; 
"While  Thine  eternal  thought  moves  on 

Thine  undisturbed  affairs." 


:as 

•I 


In  the  literary  annals  of  this  period  few  names  stand 
higher  or  fairer  than  Goldsmith's.  In  massive  force  of 
understanding,  in  sagacious  knowledge  of  the  world,  and 
in  moral  poise  of  character,  he  was  surpassed  b}-  his  co- 
temporar}^.  Dr.  Johnson ;  yet  though  in  strength  and 
solidity  Johnson  bears  the  palm,  Goldsmith  far  excelled 
him  in  that  inimitable  grace  and  poetic  elegance  that  are 
part  and  parcel  of  the  man.  Johnson  might  perhaps  too 
demand  notice  as  an  excellent  reasoner  in  rh3'me,  though 
one  could  not  disparage  the  craft  by  according  to  him  the 
title  of  poet.  In  the  ''Vanity  of  Human  Wishes"  he 
takes  expanded  views  of  human  nature,  societ}^  and  man- 
ners, yet  the  same  composition,  in  his  own  high-sounding, 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     243 

sonorous  prose,  would  have  been  far  more  adnairable. 
Nature  has  been  lavish  of  rhymers,  but  chary  of  poets ; 
and  it  is  well  to  remember  this  wise  maxim,  '*  Never  sing 
your  thought  when  3'ou  can  say  it."  In  the  world  of  let- 
ters Johnson  was  crowned  king,  and  though  it  must  be 
allowed  that  he  depressed  the  literature  of  imagination 
and  poetry,  he  conferred  a  lasting  benefit  upon  the  lan- 
guage by  elevating  that  of  the  understanding. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  at  Pallas,  a  small  village  in 
the  count}^  of  Longford,  Ireland,  on  the  10th  of  Novem- 
ber, 1728.  His  father,  a  poor  curate,  eked  out  his  scanty 
salar}^  by  cultivating  the  soil.  Succeeding  to  a  rectory, 
he  removed  to  Lissoy,  where  Goldsmith's  youth  was 
spent,  and  where  he  found  the  materials  for  his  "  Deserted 
Village.'* 

At  Trinity  College,  where,  after  a  good  country  educa- 
tion, he  was  admitted  a  sizar,  it  is  related  of  the  poet  that 
—  good-natured,  thoughtless,  and  irregular  —  having  un- 
expectedly come  into  possession  of  thirty  guineas,  he 
provided  for  the  lads  and  lasses  of  the  neighborhood  a 
bountiful  collation,  and  made  due  preparation  for  an  Irish 
jig  in  his  own  apartment.  His  tutor,  grim  and  awful, 
broke  in  upon  the  festivities,  and  routed  the  dancers  after 
beating  the  host  in  the  very  presence  of  his  guests  !  Gold- 
smith fled  in  mortification  from  college,  and  having  soon 
exhausted  his  remaining  guineas,  wandered  about  the  coun- 
try for  some  time  in  the  utmost  poverty. 

He  was  found  by  his  good  brother  Henry,  clothed,  and 
carried  back  to  college,  and  in  1749  was  admitted  to  the 
degree  of  B.  A.  His  father  in  the  mean  time  had  died. 
Returning  to  his  home  in  Lisso}^,  he  idled  away  two  years 
among  his  relatives,  spent  one  year  as  tutor  in  a  gentle- 
man's family,  and  then  his  uncle  having  given  him  twenty 
pounds  to  study  the  law,  proceeded  to  Dublin  for  that  pur- 


244       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

pose.  There  he  lost  the  whole  sum  in  a  gaming-house, 
second  contribution  was  raised,  and  the  poet  proceeded  to 
Edinburgh,  where  he  continued  a  year  and  a  half  studying 
medicine.  Time  will  not  permit  us  to  follow  through  all 
its  vicissitudes  the  life  of  Goldsmith. 

From  his  progenitors  he  inherited  a  thriftless  extrava- 
gance, a  warm  heart,  and  an  open  hand,  and  that  simple 
creduhty  in  human  goodness  which  unfitted  him  for  a  skil- 
ful part  in  the  great  game  of  life.  He  delighted  in  making 
others  happy,  yet  he  was  seldom  enough  at  ease  in  pecu- 
niary matters  to  be  happy  himself;  and  all  his  life  long, 
while  good-naturedly  reheving  the  necessities  of  others,  he 
was  harassed  to  death  by  his  own.  His  unwise  benevo- 
lence, that  often  did  more  credit  to  his  heart  than  his  head, 
is  illustrated  by  this  amusing  anecdote  :  — 

A  friend  had  invited  the  poet  to  breakfast ;  the  ap- 
pointed hour  had  passed,  and  impatient  of  dela}^,  he  re- 
paired to  Goldsmith's  apartments  and  found  him  still  in 
bed,  covered,  and  apparentlj"  half  smothered,  with  scatter- 
ing, unmanageable  feathers.  On  inquirj^,  he  learned  that 
the  poet  had  met,  the  evening  before,  a  poor  woman  with 
her  children,  soliciting  charit}-.  He  has  not  a  crown  in  his 
purse,  but  bidding  her  await  him  at  the  gate,  he  hastens  to 
his  room,  strips  the  covering  from  his  bed,  and  bestows 
upon  her  the  blankets  and  a  part  of  his  own  clothing  to  en- 
able her  to  raise  funds  for  her  necessities.  In  the  night  he 
awoke,  shivering,  and  feeling  the  need  of  the  missing  blank- 
ets, ripped  open  the  feather-bed  and  patiently  crawled 
inside  the  ticking  for  warmth,  whence,  well  befeathered, 
he  issued,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  his  waiting  host. 

Difficulty  and  distress  clung  to  Goldsmith  to  the  last. 
He  lived  solely  b}^  his  pen.  His  name  stood  foremost 
among  his  cotemporaries,  and  when  at  the  summit  of  his 
fame  and  popularity,  his  works  brought  him  in  from  one 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     245 

thousand  to  eighteen  hundred  dollars  per  annum.  Yet 
his  careless  generosit}',  his  heedless  profusion,  and  ex- 
travagance in  dress,  combined  with  the  attraction  of  the 
gaming-table,  kept  him  continually  in  debt.  He  continued 
to  write  task- work  for  the  booksellers,  till  worn  out  by 
close  application  and  goaded  by  pecuniary  embarrassment, 
he  was  attacked  by  a  painful  disease,  succeeded  by  a 
nervous  fever  which  ended  his  life  at  the  early  age  of 
forty-five. 

He  died  two  thousand  pounds  in  debt !  ''  Was  ever 
poet  so  trusted  before  ?  "  exclaims  Johnson.  He  was  laid 
in  the  Temple  burying-ground,  and  a  monument  erected 
to  his  memory  in  Westminster  Abbey,  next  the  grave  of 
Gay,  to  whom,  as  has  been  observed,  he  bore  some  re- 
semblance in  character,  though  far  surpassing  him  in 
genius.  "  Light  lie  the  turf  upon  thy  breast,  gentle, 
loving,  childlike  heart ;  beloved  with  all  thy  faults  and 
absurdities,  thy  thoughtless  extravagances  and  innocent 
vanities,  thy  blossom-colored  coat,  rosy  and  radiant  as 
thine  own  imagination.  Let  thy  manly  independence, 
generous  benevolence,  and  enlightened  zeal  for  the  hap- 
piness and  improvement  of  mankind  cover  the  '  failings 
that  ever'  leaned  to  virtue's  side." 

"  Poor  Goldsmith!  "  says  Irving,  "  shall  we  not  feel  for  him 
who  felt  for  all  ?  With  all  his  wealth  of  genius,  the  victim  of 
his  own  fatal  imprudence,  'struggling,'  as  he  tells  us,  'year 
after  year  with  indigence  and  contempt,  with  all  those  strong 
passions  that  make  contempt  insupportable,'  and  in  his  hopeless 
condition  requesting  a  gaol  as  a  favor!  '* 

Goldsmith  may  be  said  to  belong  to  the  school  of  Pope  in 
form  and  in  style.  He  has  the  same  harmony  and  grace, 
and  is  nearly  faultless ;  yet  the  earnestness  and  gentle 
simplicity  of  the  man  give  to  his  poetry  a  tenderness  and 


246       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

a  natural  unstudied  excellence  which  Pope  never  attained. 
He  is  never  sublime,  seldom  insipid  or  coarse.  Johnson, 
in  his  epitaph  on  the  poet,  has  well  characterized  him : 
''  A  ruler  of  our  affections,  and  mover  alike  of  our  laugh- 
ter and  our  tears,  as  gentle  as  he  is  prevaiUng." 

In  December,  1764,  appeared  Goldsmith's  poem  of  the 
"  Traveller,"  which  is  the  chief  corner-stone  of  his  fame. 
Critics  have  considered  it  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  lan- 
guage. His  "  Deserted  Village  "  is  almost  equally  merito- 
rious, and  there  is  probabl}^  no  poem  in  the  English  language, 
unless  it  be  Gray's  ''  Elegy,"  more  universally  popular.  Its 
best  passages  —  such  as  the  School-master's  portraiture,  the 
description  of  the  Ale  House,  and  that  picture  of  the  Village 
Preacher  for  which  the  poet's  father  sat  —  are  familiar  to 
all ;  yet  so  perfect  are  they  in  outline  and  beauty  of  color- 
ing as  never  to  weary  by  repetition.  One  might  as  soon 
call  a  rose  hackneyed ;  and  indeed  we  may  say  of  some  of 
Goldsmith's  verses  that  they  have  the  same  consummate 
perfection  that  Nature  has  given  to  her  floral  master- 
piece. Of  the  "Traveller"  it  has  been  affirmed  that 
"it  is  without  one  bad  line."  This  is  the  Preacher's 
fine  portrait :  — 

"  A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize. 
More  hent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     247 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 
But,  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all; 
And  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries. 
To  tempt  her  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way.  ' 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed. 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway ; 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
"With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile. 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile ; 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm ; 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head." 

Equally  perfect  is   the   School-master's  picture,   in  — 
** .  .  .  words  of  learned  length,  and  thundering  sound,** 


248  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

arguing  with  the  parson  before  the  gaping  rustics,  till — 

"...  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew !  ** 

By  his  pen  Goldsmith  has  added  vastly  to  the  glory 
of  English  literature  and  given  delight  to  millions.  Who 
that  reads  the  ''  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  does  not  bless  the 
Providence  that  gave  him  to  mankind?  The  fashion  of 
this  world  passeth  awaj-,  but  human  nature  is  eternally 
the  same,  reproducing  in  one  generation  the  faults  and 
the  virtues  of  another  on  and  on  in  endless  cj'cles  of  being. 
For  nearly  a  whole  century  Moses  has  continued  to  go  to 
the  fair,  Mrs.  Primrose  has  innocently  prided  herself  upon 
her  daughters  and  her  gooseberry  wine  ;  poor  Olivia,  stoop- 
ing to  folly,  still  claims  a  pit3'ing  tear ;  and  not  Rosa  Bon- 
heur's  quadrupeds  shall  outlive  those  gratuitous  "  sheep" 
that  the  obliging  artist  agreed  to  "  throw  in  "  as  abun- 
dantly as  possible  when  he  undertook  the  great  ''  family 
picture." 

Goldsmith  produced  his  popular  comedy  of  the  "  Good- 
Natured  Man"  in  1768,  and  in  1773  "  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer" was  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  "  with 
immense  applause."  And  now,  at  the  summit  of  his  fame, 
after  his  toilsome  march,  weary  and  worn,  he  lay  down  at 
noontide,  and  slept  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 

By  far  the  greatest  of  the  minor  poets  belonging  to  the 
age  of  the  first  two  Georges  was  William  Collins,  who  died 
at  the  early  age  of  thirty-eight,  nearty  all  his  poetry  having 
been  written  ten  j^ears  before  his  death.  The  story  of  his 
life  is  brief  and  mournful.  Though  but  the  son  of  a  trades- 
man, he  received  a  learned  education.  His  genius  was 
great  and  his  learning  extensive ;  and  full  of  high  hopes 
and  magnificent  schemes,  he  repaired  from  Oxford  to 
London. 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.      249 

In  1746  he  published  his  "Odes,"  which  were  pur- 
chased by  Millar,  the  bookseller,  but  failed  to  attract 
the  attention  the}"  so  richly  merited.  Nature  had  tem- 
pered Collins  of  clay  too  fine  for  the  rough  uses  of  life. 
The  sensitive  poet  sunk  under  the  disappointment ;  and 
alread}'  overshadowed  by  madness,  —  the  fatal  malady 
that  overcame  him  at  last,  —  he  wasted  in  listless  indo- 
lence or  reckless  dissipation  the  fine  promise  of  his  3'outh. 
The  poet  Thomson,  whom  he  appears  to  have  known  and 
loved,  died  in  1748.  Collins  "  strung  his  Ij're  yet  once 
again,"  and  produced  in  honor  to  his  memor}'  that  ode 
which  has  been  pronounced  one  of  the  finest  elegiacs  in 
the  language. 

Now,  in  the  midst  of  his  difficulties  his  uncle  died  and 
left  him  a  sum  which  he  did  not  live  to  exhaust,  —  two 
thousand  pounds.  He  repaid  the  bookseller  the  loss  sus- 
tained by  the  publication  of  his  "  Odes,"  and  buying  up  the 
remaining  copies,  committed  them  to  the  flames.  The  sun- 
shine of  fortune  came  too  late.  He  had  produced  works  of 
genius,  and  the  world  had  regarded  them  with  scorn.  He 
sunk  into  a  state  of  nervous  imbecilit}^,  and  his  faithful 
sister,  —  who  tended  him  till  only  the  faint  traces  of  mem- 
ory and  reason  were  left,  —  at  last  found  it  necessary  to 
confine  him  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  One  can  picture  nothing, 
unless  it  be  Charles  Lamb  and  his  poor  crazed  Mary,  more 
touching  than  the  devotion  of  this  sister  to  mad,  mournful 
Collins,  wandering,  as  he  is  said  to  have  done,  when  set 
at  liberty,  day  and  night  among  the  sombre  aisles  and 
cloisters  of  the  cathedral  at  Chichester,  answering  the 
pealing  minster  music  with  the  loud  sobs  and  moans  of 
a  breaking  heart.  At  last,  with  every  spark  of  imagi- 
nation extinguished,  he  is  pictured,  clasping  with  clinging 
hands  only  one  book,  and  ''  that,"  he  says,  '*  is  the  best," 
the  Bible.     And  thus  he  died :  — 


250       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  This  poet,  who  in  a  golden  clime  was  born 
With  golden  stars  above, 
Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love,  of  love." 

Peace  to  his  broken  heart ! 

Of  Collins  it  has  been  justly  said  that  "  he  had  genius 
enough  for  anything ;  "  and  all  that  he  has  written  is  full 
of  imagination,  pathos,  and  melody.  It  has  been  justly 
observed  that  '•'•  if  there  is  any  defect  in  his  poetry,  it  is 
that  it  has  too  little  of  earth  in  it.  In  the  purity  and 
depth  of  its  beauty  it  resembles  the  bright  blue  sky." 
Though  utterly  neglected  on  their  first  appearing,  his 
''Odes"  in  the  course  of  one  generation,  without  any 
aid  to  bring  them  into  notice,  were  acknowledged  to  be 
the  best  of  their  kind  in  the  language.  Silently  and 
imperceptibly  they  had  risen  by  their  own  buoyant  merit, 
and  their  power  was  felt  by  every  reader  of  true  poetic 
feeling. 

Of  Collins's  shorter  odes  this  is  perhaps  the  finest :  — 

"  How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest. 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
"When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould. 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod, 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

"  By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray. 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay. 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there." 

Gray  and  Shenstone  both  outlived  Collins,  though  born 
before  him.  Shenstone,  born  in  1714,  and  dying  in  1763, 
is  remembered  for  his  "  School-mistress  "  and  a  few  pleas- 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     251 

ing  shorter  poems.  He  aimed  at  political  as  well  as  poeti- 
cal celebrity,  and  disappointed  in  his  ambition,  died  in 
solitude,  but  "  still,"  it  is  said.  ''  a  votary  of  the  world." 
Two  smooth  stanzas  from  Shenstone,  conned  in  the  dear 
old  "English  Reader,"  delighted  our  tender  infant  heart : 

"  I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair, 

I  have  found  where  the  wood-pigeons  breed : 
But,  oh,  let  me  this  plunder  forbear 
She  will  say  't  was  a  barbarous  deed ; 

Tor  he  ne'er  can  be  true,  she  averred. 

Who  would  rob  a  poor  bird  of  its  young ; 
And  I  loved  her  the  more  when  I  heard 
Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue." 

Ah,  hardened  indeed  in  iniquity  we  deemed  the  big 
head-boy  of  our  reading  class  who  spouted  fervently 
those  melting  lines  while  still  cold-bloodedly  intent  upon 
his  Saturday's  birds'-nesting ! 

Thomas  Gray,  author  of  the  far-famed  "  Elegy  in  a 
Country  Churchyard,"  was  born  in  1716.  His  father 
had  driven  his  wife  and  child  from  him  by  harsh  treat- 
ment ;  and  the  poet  owed  to  the  exertions  of  his  mother 
as  a  needlewoman  the  advantages  of  a  learned  education. 
These  domestic  circumstances  are  supposed  to  have  given 
to  the  poet  that  tinge  of  melancholy  and  pensive  reflection 
which  is  visible  in  his  poetry. 

After  leaving  college,  his  life  affords  but  little  of  interest. 
He  spent  a  year  in  Italy  with  his  friend,  Horace  Walpole. 
His  father's  death  now  left  him  a  moderate  competenc}^ ; 
and  being  "  more  intent  on  learning  than  on  riches,"  after 
taking  his  degree  in  civil  law  he  did  not  care  to  follow 
up  the  profession,  but  fixing  his  residence  at  Cambridge, 
passed  amid  its  noble  libraries  and  learned  societies  the 
greater  part  of  his  remaining  life.     He  died  in  1771,  in 


252  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

his  fifty-fifth  year,  and  was  buried,  according  to  his  desire, 
by  the  side  of  his  good  mother  at  Stoke,  near  Windsor. 

Though  Gray's  poetry  is  confined  to  a  few  pieces,  he 
may  rank  in  quality  with  the  first  order  of  poets.  His  two 
odes,  the  "  Progress  of  Poetry"  and  the  '*  Bard,"  though 
not  as  purely  poetical,  surpass  in  fire,  energy,  and  boldness 
of  imagination  the  odes  of  Collins.  The  poetry-  of  Gray 
has  been  aptly  compared  to  ''  mosaic- work."  In  his  coun- 
try rambles  he  carried  with  him  a  plano-convex  mirror, 
which  in  surveying  landscapes  gathers  into  one  confined 
glance  the  forms  and  tints  of  the  surrounding  scene.  A 
critic  has  observed  that  ''  his  imagination  performed  a 
similar  operation  in  collecting,  fixing,  and  appropriating 
the  materials  of  poetry.  All  is  bright,  natural,  rich,  and 
interesting,  but  seen  only  for  a  moment." 

Gray  is  characterized  by  the  finest  classic  taste.  He 
studied  in  the  school  of  the  ancient  and  Italian  poets,  yet 
in  his  translations  from  the  Norse  tongue  he  has  given  to 
the  wild  superstitions  of  the  Gothic  nation  the  natural  fire 
and  rude  energy  of  the  Scandinavian  bards.  The  highest 
poetry,  addressing  itself  only  to  minds  of  kindred  taste,  can 
never  be  extensively  popular.  ''  Gray's  classical  diction," 
observes  Craik,  *'  his  historical  and  mythological  personi- 
fication, must  ever  be  lost  on  the  multitude ;  while  his 
*  Elegy,'  dealing  with  a  subject  familiar  to  all,  and  de- 
scribing in  exquisite  harmonious  verse  what  all  might  feel  or 
imagine,  will  not  lack  readers  or  admirers,  and  will  ever  be 
the  main  prop  of  his  reputation."  There  is  scarcely  a  poem 
in  the  language  more  universally  approved  than  Gra3^'s 
*'  Elegy."  Yet  history  does  record  that  one  solemn  old 
lady  conscientiously  objected  to  the  poem  on  this  ground, 
—  it  was,  she  affirmed,  "altogether  too  light  and  trifling  !  " 
This  fact  proves  universal  popularity  to  be  unattainable. 
How  must  this  same  excellent  person  have  been  shocked 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     253 

by  the  sinful  levity  of  Gray's  *'  Ode  on  a  Favorite  Cat 
Drowned  in  a  Tub  of  Goldfishes,"  who  — 

"  Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood, 
Mewed  loud  to  every  watery  god !  " 

In  the  "  Progress  of  Poetry,"  less  familiar  than  the 
'*  Elegy,"  we  have  some  of  Gray's  richest  and  most  ma- 
jestic strains ;  as,  for  example,  the  poetical  character  of 
Shakespeare,  from  which  our  poet,  Stoddard,  as  may 
readily  be  observed,  has  borrowed  the  leading  thought 
in  his  fine  poem  on  the  same  subject. 

"  Far  from  the  sun  and  summer  gale, 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling  laid ; 
"What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed,  ' 

To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face  ;  the  dauntless  child 
Stretched  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
*  This  pencil  take,'  she  said, '  whose  colors  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year : 
Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immortal  boy ! 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  Joy ; 
Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears, 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears.'  '* 

Of  equal  excellence  is  this  of  Milton,  from  the  same 
poem :  — 

"Nor  second  he,  that  rode  sublime 

Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy, 

The  secrets  of  th*  abyss  to  spy. 
He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time: 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire-blaze. 
Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw ;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night." 

Notwithstanding  their  varied  and  complicated  versifica- 
tion, Gray's  stanzas  flow  with  lyrical  ease  and  perfect  har- 
mony.    Description  he  considered  a  graceful  ornament  of 


254       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

poetry,  but  held  that  it  ought  never  to  make  the  subject, 
holding  no  poetry  to  be  admirable  that  did  not  contain 
some  weighty  moral  truth  or  some  chain  of  reasoning.  His 
standard  was  not  a  correct  one ;  but  he  seems  carefully 
to  have  practised  what  he  believed  and  taught.  Some 
profound  thought  or  sentiment  mingles  with  all  he  de- 
scribes. As  a  poet  he  displa3's  pathos,  humor,  elegance  of 
diction,  purity  of  aim,  and  exquisite  finish.  The  "Elegy" 
has  perhaps  been  inordinately  valued.  Gray's  *'  Eton 
College  "  and  "  Progress  of  Poetr}^,"  by  persons  of  kindred 
taste  and  knowledge,  are  quite  as  highly  esteemed  as  that 
more  popularly  conceived  poem.  In  1854  a  manuscript 
copy  of  the  *'  Elegy,"  written  in  the  poefs  own  small  neat 
hand,  was  sold  for  the  large  sum  of  one  hundred  and  thirt}^- 
one  pounds!  It  has  been  aptly  said  that  "  it  would  be 
well  for  those  who  are  disposed  to  underrate  the  gift  of 
song  to  remember  that  although  Gray  is  said  to  have  been 
the  most  learned  man  of  his  age  (he  was  certainly  the 
most  learned  poet  since  Milton),  a  laborious  student  of 
historj^,  genealogy,  antiquities,  and  natural  history,  indeed 
versed  more  or  less  in  every  branch  of  knowledge  except 
mathematics  and  theolog}' ;  though  his  life  was  alwaj's  that 
of  a  scholar,  and  onl}'  at  intervals  that  of  a  poet,  —  for  his 
fame  he  is  indebted  to  half  a  dozen  little  poems,  and  not 
at  all  to  the  notes  and  fragments  of  criticism  and  com- 
mentary that  he  left  in  almost  every  department  of  human 
learning." 

Thomas  Chatterton,  — 

"  The  marvellous  boy, 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride,"  — 

was  born  at  Bristol,  1752.  He  was  the  posthumous  son 
of  a  school-teacher,  and  educated  at  a  charity  school  where 
nothing  but  English,  writing,  and  accounts  were  taught ; 


I 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     255 

yet  he  was  the  most  remarkable  instance  of  precocious 
genius  that  his  country  and  perhaps  the  world  has  ever 
known.  "  Genius,"  however,  as  has  been  observed, 
*'  should  be  estimated  b}^  its  magnitude,  rather  than  by 
its  prematureness." 

Chatterton  attained  in  early  boyhood  the  full  powers  of 
manhood ;  and  if  he  had  Hved  and  failed  to  produce  any- 
thing greater,  as  he  might,  he  would  have  ceased  to  be  a 
wonder.  Apprenticed  to  an  attorney  at  fourteen,  his  irk- 
some duties  still  left  him  time  to  pursue  his  favorite  studies, 
—  poetry,  antiquities,  and  heraldr3\  A  proud  ambition  was 
his  ruling  passion  ;  and  by  the  pretended  discoveries  of  old 
manuscripts  —  which  were  in  reality  the  productions  of  his 
own  precocious  genius  —  he  won  at  that  early  age  the 
notice  which  he  desired,  and  for  a  time  duped  the  public. 
Subsequently  his  poems,  which  were  written  in  the  antique 
language  and  diction  of  the  ancient  bards,  were  proved  to 
be  forgeries.  But  this  discovery  only  made  him  more  fa- 
mous ;  and  great  the  wonder  grew  that  an  indifferently 
educated  boy  of  sixteen  should  have  produced  such  works. 
In  poetical  power  and  diction  the  avowed  compositions  of 
Chatterton  are  far  inferior  to  the  forgeries.  Sir  Walter 
Scott  accounts  for  this  by  the  fact  that  the  whole  powers 
and  energies  of  the  child  must  at  a  very  early  age  have 
been  converted  to  the  acquisition  of  the  obsolete  language 
and  peculiar  style  necessarj-  to  support  this  deep-laid  de- 
ception. Our  modern  spiritualist  would  account  for  the 
superior  excellence  of  the  forgeries  in  quite  another  way ; 
for  was  not  this  morbid  boy  cast  in  very  ''medium" 
mould  ?  Where  could  defunct  bards,  whose  restless  ghosts 
still  sigh  along  the  ages  for  mortal  celebrity,  have  found  a 
readier  mouthpiece  than  in  this  mesmeric  and  unscrupulous 
boy  ?  If  Chatterton  —  poor  lad  !  —  had  but  postponed  his 
advent  to  this  more  psj-chical  nineteenth  century,  what  a 


256       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


world  of  trouble  the  spiritualists  might  have  saved  th 
antiquarians ! 

Released  from  his  three  years'  apprenticeship,  Chatter 
ton  went  to  London,  where  he  engaged  in  various  tasks 
for  the  booksellers,  and  wrote  for  the  magazines  and  news- 
papers. He  was,  it  is  said,  but  a  poor  patriot,  and  wrote 
on  both  sides  if  money  was  to  be  got.  He  made  it  his 
boast  that  "  his  company  was  courted  everywhere,  and 
that  he  would  settle  the  nation  before  he  had  done."  These 
splendid  hopes  were  early  nipped  in  the  bud.  Failing  to 
obtain  a  comfortable  subsistence  by  his  pen,  Chatterton 
applied,  as  a  last  hope,  for  the  appointment  of  surgeon's 
mate  to  Africa.  He  was  refused  the  necessary  recommen- 
dation, and  disappointed  and  discouraged,  fell  into  habits 
of  intemperance,  made  no  further  effort  at  literar}^  com- 
position, and  having  cast  off  the  restraints  of  religion,  he 
had  but  one  steady  principle  to  guide  him,  —  his  affection 
for  his  mother  and  sister,  to  whom  he  sent  remittances 
of  money  while  his  means  lasted ;  yet  even  this  did  not 
redeem  him. 

Reduced  now  to  actual  want,  and  his  constitutional 
melancholy  and  pride  aggravated  by  the  fatal  stimulant 
to  which  he  resorted,  he  still  maintained  a  maudlin  self- 
respect,  and  the  very  day  before  his  death  he  is  said  to 
have  haughtih^  rejected  a  dinner  offered  him  b}"  his  tender- 
hearted landlad}^  Wretched  and  starving,  in  his  insane 
misery  he  tore  all  his  papers,  and  destroyed  himself  by 
taking  arsenic.  He  died  in  1770.  At  the  time  of  his 
death  he  was  aged  but  seventeen  years  and  nine  months. 

"  Great  geniuses,"  observes  Hazlitt,  "  like  great  kings, 
have  too  much  to  think  of  to  kill  themselves ;  for  their 
mind  also  to  them  a  kingdom  is.  ...  I  believe,"  says  the 
same  critic,  "  that  he  would  not  have  written  better  had  he 
lived.     He  knew  this  himself^  or  he  would  have  lived" 


1 

he    ■ 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     257 

Malone  —  somewhat  absurdly,  I  think  —  considers  Chat- 
terton  the  greatest  genius  that  England  has  produced  since 
the  days  of  Shakespeare.  Whatever  may  be  affirmed  of 
Chatterton's  genius  as  to  quantity,  it  must  be  insisted  upon 
that  in  quality  it  bears  not  the  slightest  comparison  with 
that  of  Shakespeare.  Nature  fashioned  the  bard  of  Avon 
in  her  choicest  mould ;  and  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound  body 
developed  in  the  open  air  of  existence  a  genius  healthy  as 
it  was  rare.  Chatterton's  genius,  precipitated  in  the  fever- 
ish hot-bed  of  disease,  was  as  morbid  and  unnatural*  as  it 
was  wonderful.  Shakespeare  goes  to  London  indigent  and 
obscure.  Shall  poverty  overcome  Mmf  No.  Let  him 
rather  overcome  her.  And  manly  and  independent,  he 
holds  horses  and  is  clothed  and  fed,  and  lives  on  forever 
in  "  Lear  "  and  "  Macbeth/'  in  "  Hamlet"  and  "Othello." 
Chatterton — poor  boy  !  — carries  to  the  same  great  swarm- 
ing hive  of  humanit}^  his  dreams  and  hopes,  his  penurj-  and 
his  pride.  Poverty  and  want,  like  ravening  wolves,  are 
upon  him  ;  he  will  "  not  dig ;  to  beg  he  is  ashamed,"  and 
in  his  mad  despair  he  says,  "  I  will  curse  God  and  die  ;  " 
and  he  lives  but  in  a  few  poems,  flung  like  mournful  drift- 
wood on  the  shore  of  Time,  —  sad  mementos  of  a  bark 
that  on  its  first  venture  went  down,  wrecked  upon  the 
cruel  rocks  of  passion,  penury,  and  pride ! 

"Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 
No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 
Has  ever  truly  longed  for  death. 

**  'T  is  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 
Oh  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant ; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  we  want ! " 

Chatterton's  most  distinguishing  feature  as  a  poet  is  his 
power  of  picturesque  painting.  His  poems  consist  of  the 
''  Tragedy  of  ^Ua,"  the  "  Execution  of  Sir  Charles  Baw- 

17 


258  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

din,"  ''  Ode  to  ^lla,"  ''  The  Battle  of  Hastings,"  *'  The 
Tournament,"  one  or  two  dialogues,  and  a  description 
of  Canynge's  feast. 

As  Chatterton  concentrated  his  whole  faculties  on  the 
herculean  task  of  creating  the  person,  history,  and  lan- 
guage of  an  ancient  poet,  he  could  have  had  no  time  for 
the  study  of  our  modern  poets,  their  rules  of  verse,  or 
modes  of  expression  ;  and  writing  in  his  own  character, 
his  effusions,  though  they  display  a  wonderful  command 
of  language,  vigor,  maturity,  and  freedom  of  style,  are 
often  in  bad  taste.  In  maturing  his  forgeries,  he  had  no 
confidant  in  his  labors,  but  toiled  on  in  secret,  gratified 
only  by  the  stoical  *'  pride  of  talent."  Conceiving  that 
the  moon  added  to  his  inspiration  by  its  immediate  pres- 
ence, he  frequently  wrote  by  its  beams.  He  would  also, 
it  is  said,  lie  down  on  the  meadows  in  view  of  St.  Mary's 
Church,  Bristol,  fix  his  eyes  upon  the  ancient  edifice,  and 
seem  as  if  he  were  in  a  kind  of  trance ;  thus  feeding  his 
romantic  imagination,  he  nursed  that  enthusiasm  which 
at  length  destroyed  him. 

The  success  of  Macpherson's  "  Ossian,"  then  in  the 
high  tide  of  popularity,  would  appear  to  have  prompted 
the  remarkable  forgeries  of  Chatterton.  Macpherson  seems 
to- have  collected  some  fragments  of  ancient  Gaelic  poetry 
floating  among  the  Highlands.  These  he  wrought  up  into 
regular  poems,  and  gave  to  the  world  as  the  productions  of 
Ossian,  —  a  bard  of  the  third  or  fourth  centurj^,  —  he,  Mac- 
pherson, having  translated  them  from  the  Gaelic.  Not  at 
all  staggered  by  the  astounding  possibility  that  a  people 
exhibiting  the  high  and  chivalrous  feelings,  and  the  refined 
virtues  of  modern  civilization,  existed  at  that  earl}-  period 
among  the  wild,  remote  mountains  of  Scotland,  or  by  the 
idea  of  the  poems  being  handed  down  unimpaired  by  tra- 
dition through  so  many  centuries  among  rude,  savage,  and 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     259 

barbarous  tribes,  the  public  received  these  forgeries  with 
avidit3\  "  Man}'  doubted,"  it  is  said  ;  "  others  disbelieved  ; 
but  a  still  greater  number  indulged  the  pleasing  supposi- 
tion that  Fingal  fought  and  Ossian  sung."  The  sale  of 
Ossian's  poems  was  immense,  and  Maq^herson  realized 
a  handsome  fortune.  Time  and  an  improved  taste  have 
abated  the  popularity'  of  these  poems,  once  hailed  with  de- 
light by  Gray,  Hume,  Blair,  and  others  equally  eminent, 
and  said  to  have  been  the  favorite  reading  of  Napoleon  ; 
yet  we  must  still  accord  to  them  a  wild,  solitary  magnifi- 
cence, pathos,  tenderness,  and  true  poetical  power.  The 
lamentations  in  the  "  Song  of  Selma"  and  the  "  Desola- 
tion of  Balclutha  "  are  finely  conceived  ;  as,  for  example, 
in  this  description  :  — 

"  The  daughter  of  the  snow  overheard,  and  left  the  hall  of  her  secret 

sigh. 
She  came  in  all  her  beauty,  like  the  moon  from  the  cloud  of  the  east. 
Loveliness  was  around  her  as  light ;  her  steps  were  like  the  music  of 

songs." 

How  much  of  the  published  work  is  ancient,  and  how 
much  fabricated,  cannot  now  be  ascertained.  A  fierce  con- 
trovers}^  raged  for  some  time  in  regard  to  their  authenticity. 
The  Highland  Society  instituted  a  regular  inquiry  into  the 
subject ;  and  in  their  report  the  committee  state  that  they 
have  not  been  able  to  obtain  any  one  poem  the  same  in 
title  and  tenor  with  the  ones  published.  It  has  been  sug- 
gested that  after  having  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  duping  so 
man}'  critics,  Macpherson  intended  one  day  to  claim  the 
poems  as  his  own.  His  death,  somewhat  premature  and 
sudden,  closed  the  scene  ;  and  he  left  among  his  papers  not 
a  single  line  that  throws  any  light  upon  the  controversy. 
When  Macpherson  had  not  the  groundwork  of  the  ancient 
bard  to  build  upon,  he  was  a  far  more  indifferent  poet  than 
Chatterton. 


260       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Chatterton's  minstrel  song  in  "^ila"  is  perhaps  his 
best  production ;  it  is  at  least  his  most  poetical. 

THE   MINSTREL'S  SONG  IN  ^ELLA. 

O  sing  unto  my  roundelay ; 

O  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me ; 
Dance  no  more  on  hoHday, 
Like  a  running  river  be ; 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  neck  as  summer  snow, 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below : 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle's  note. 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 
Oh  !  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Hark !  the  raven  flaps  his  wing, 

In  the  briered  dell  below ; 
Hark  I  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high ; 
Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud; 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.      261 

Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  wiUow-tree. 

Here  upon  my  true-love's  grave 

Shall  the  baren  flowers  be  laid, 
Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  celness  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  I  '11  bind  the  briers,  ' 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre ; 

Ouphante  faery,  light  your  fires. 

Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 

My  love  is  dead, 

(rone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn, 

Drain  my  heart's  blood  all  away; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn. 
Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Water-witches,  crowned  with  reytes, 

Bear  me  to  your  deadly  tide : 
I  die  —  I  come —  my  true-love  waits.  — 

Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 

William  Cowper,  whose  name  cast  the  greatest  lustre 
upon  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  though  now 
somewhat  neglected  by  us  for  the  more  lofty  and  splendid 


262  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

poets  of  our  choice,  is  still  dear  to  our  inmost  hearts.  This 
gentle  and  affectionate  poet  —  a  sort  of  rhyming  Penates 
—  we  still  enshrine  in  our  homes,  and  associate  with  the 
familiar  joys  of  daily  existence. 

Cowper  was  born  in  the  county  of  Hereford,  1731,  and 
was  descended  from  some  of  the  noblest  families  of  Eng- 
land on  his  father's  side,  and  his  mother's  lineage  could  be 
traced,  by  four  different  lines,  from  Henry  III.  The  poet, 
being  God's  most  roj'al  child,  may  afford  to  be  "  too  proud 
to  care  from  whence  he  came  ;  "  but  Cowper's  unassuming, 
childlike  character  appears  the  more  lovelj'  against  this 
lustrous  background.  His  father,  Rev.  Dr.  Cowper,  was 
chaplain  to  George  II.,  and  held  besides  the  rector}^  of 
Great  Burkhamstead.  In  his  sixth  year  the  poet  lost  his 
mother,  and  was  sent  to  boarding-school.  There,  a  deli- 
cate homesick  child,  he  was  for  two  miserable  years 
subjected  to  the  mean  tyranny  of  an  older  school-fellow. 
Subsequently  he  "  served,"  as  he  tells  us,  ''  a  seven  years' 
apprenticeship  to  the  classics  "  at  Westminster  School,  and 
at  the  age  of  eighteen  was  removed  and  articled  to  an  at- 
torney. Having  passed  through  this  training,  he  was,  in 
1764,  called  to  the  bar.  In  his  thirt^'-second  3'ear  Cowper 
found  himself,  b}'  the  death  of  his  father,  left  with  a  small 
patrimony,  which  was  fast  growing  less.  The  law  was 
with  him  but  a  nominal  profession,  and  in  this  crisis  of  his 
fortunes  his  kinsman,  Major  Cowper,  presented  him  with  a 
lucrative  and  desirable  appointment  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
which  he  accepted. 

The  seeds  of  insanit^^  already  in  his  brain  were  rapidly 
developed  by  the  labor  of  studying  the  forms  of  procedure  ; 
and  haunted  by  the  dread  of  an  impending  examination  at 
the  bar  of  the  House,  he  brooded  over  this  necessity  until 
reason  fled,  and  in  his  madness  he  attempted  his  own  life. 
Fortunatel}^  for  himself  and  mankind,  this  desperate  effort 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     263 

failed.  The  appointment  was  of  course  given  up,  and 
Cowper  was  removed  to  a  private  mad-house.  In  less 
than  eight  months  his  reason  was  restored,  but  he  con- 
tinued through  life  a  victim  to  those  "  h3'pochondrias  " 
which  Carl3'le  tells  us  "  all  great  souls  are  apt  to  have, 
till  the  eternal  waj^s  and  the  celestial  guiding-stars  disclose 
themselves,  and  the  vague  abyss  of  life  knit  itself  up  into 
firmaments  for  them."  His  madness  was  succeeded  b}^  a 
gentle  melancholy,  and  b}^  a  new-born  religious  zeal,  whose 
fervor  caused  his  friends  to  question  if  it  were  not  a  con- 
tinuation of  his  madness.  He  now  resolved  to  withdraw 
entirely  from  the  world,  ceased  corresponding  with  his 
friends,  and  removing  to  the  town  of  Huntingdon,  near 
Cambridge,  became  first  a  visitor,  then  a  boarder,  and 
was  afterward  adopted  into  the  family  of  Mr.  Unwin,  —  a 
clergyman  of  the  place.  After  the  death  of  Mr.  Unwin,  he 
still  resided  with  his  widow,  gentle  Mary  Unwin,  — 

"  Partaker  of  his  fame,  and  sad  decline/*  — 

removing  with  her  to  Olney,  which  now  beca^me  their  home. 
In  1773  Cowper's  melanchol}'  again  developed  into  de- 
cided insanity,  and  in  this  unhappy  state,  faithfull}'  attended 
by  Mary  Unwin,  about  two  years  of  his  life  were  passed. 
Cowper's  mental  disease  was  at  this  time  greatly  aggra- 
vated, if  not  entirety  caused,  by  his  hopeless  religious 
views,  which  led  him  to  brood  almost  exclusively  over 
human  depravity  and  the  more  awful  attributes  of  his 
God.  He  was  associated  with  Rev.  John  Newton,  to 
whose  collection  of  hymns  he  largely  contributed.  This 
good  person  was  unfortunately  the  worst  of  intimates  for 
a  man  who  needed  to  be  inspired  by  cheerfulness  rather 
than  terror,  yet  at  this  time,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs. 
Unwin,  he  was  his  onty  acceptable  friend.  After  his  re- 
covery from  this  attack  our  poet's  gentle  days  were  passed 


264       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

beautifully  and  blamelessly,  if  not  happily ;  and  what  with 
his  pet  hares,  his  poetry,  his  drawing  and  gardening,  he 
led  a  busy,  useful  life.  In  1796  his  beloved  Mrs.  Unwin, 
after  a  long  and  helpless  disease,  left  him.  ''  He  could 
not,"  says  his  biographer,  ' '  believe  her  actually'  dead  till 
he  saw  the  body  in  the  placid  repose  of  eternity.  Then 
with  a  passionate  exclamation  of  sorrow  he  flung  himself 
to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  from  that  time  never 
mentioned  her  name,  though  he  survived  her  more  than 
three  years." 

Cowper's  life  to  the  last  was  shadowed  by  the  dark  cloud 
of  religious  despondency.  In  April,  1800,  he  passed  be- 
yond the  region  of  clouds  in  a  sleep  so  gentle  and  beautiful 
that  the  moment  of  his  departure  was  imperceptible. 

In  Cowper's  character  we  have  the  finest  combination 
of  purity  of  aim,  lofty  and  unwavering  principle,  and  rich 
intellectual  power. 

In  his  verse  he  may  be  said  to  have  broken  through  the 
conventional  forms  and  usages  established  b}'  Pope,  and 
compared  with  his  predecessors  raa}^  be  called  a  natural 
poet.  He  was  endowed  with  little  fancy  and  creative  im- 
agination ;  yet  after  Thomson,  he  may  be  considered  the 
best  of  our  descriptive  poets.  His  poetry  is  of  high  and 
varied  excellence,  and  has  in  it  that  simple  earnestness 
that  charms  even  unpoetical  minds.  Critics  have  allowed 
him  minute  graphical  power,  tenderness,  pathos,  fine  manly 
sense,  great  simplicity,  with  terseness  of  style,  wit,  humor, 
and  elegance. 

A  distinguishing  quality  of  his  genius  is  its  power  to 
blend  harmoniously  argument,  piety,  poetry,  and  common- 
sense.  In  his  earliest  poems  it  was  his  especial  purpose 
to  make  a  departure  from  the  old  polished  uniformity  of 
Pope  and  his  imitators,  and  consequently  they  are  pur- 
posely rugged.     Later,  he  acquired  an  individual  freedom 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     265 

of  versification,  a  variety  of  pause  and  cadence,  united 
with  easy  grace  and  melody,  careful  finish,  simplicit3%  and 
terseness.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Cowper's  religious 
melancholy  and  chronic  dejection  of  mind  hindered  the 
habitual  exercise  of  that  rich  humor  which  was  also  a  part 
of  his  nature.  He  saj's  of  himself  when  in  the  solicitor's 
office  that  he  and  his  fellow-clerk,  the  future  Lord  Chan- 
cellor Thurlow,  were  ''  constantly  employed  in  giggling 
and  making  giggle  ;  "  and  we  may  well  believe  him.  In  the 
Temple  he  wrote  gay  verses,  and  associated  with  conge- 
nial wits.  Mary  Unwin,  lovely  and  devoted  as  she  was, 
does  not  seem  to  have  been  one  to  whom  the  element  of 
mirth  was  natural  and  necessary.  Lady  Austen,  an  ac- 
complished and  attractive  widow  who  came  to  reside  in 
the  poet's  neighborhood,  and  to  whom,  in  part,  we  owe  the 
'*  Task,"  —  as  it  was  she  who  induced  him  to  write  that 
poem,  —  appears  to  have  had  the  happiest  mental  influ- 
ence over  Cowper.  Their  friendship  was  unfortunately 
dissolved  before  that  poem  was  completed.  It  is  said  that 
she  proved  too  attractive,  exacting  too  much  of  that  time 
and  attention  that  belonged  to  Mary  Unwin,  whom  Newton 
tells  us  in  his  diar}-  that  Cowper  would  have  married  but 
for  his  taint  of  insanity.  Whatever  may  have  been  the 
cause  of  their  alienation.  Lady  Austen  left  Olney  forever, 
but  not  until  she  had  told  the  poet  the  ''  true  story  of 
*  John  Gilpin,' "  on  which  that  inimitable  ballad  is  founded, 
and  which,  as  his  biographer  tells  us,  sprang  up  hke  a 
mushroom  in  a  single  night.  The  lively  lady  having  re- 
lated it  to  Cowper  in  one  of  their  evening  parties,  on  his 
return  from  that  cheerful  gathering,  it  was  versified  in  bed 
and  presented  to  Lady  Austen  the  next  morning,  in  the 
shape  of  a  ballad. 

Of  Cowper's   long  poems,  the   "Task"   and  "Table 
Talk"   are   considered  the  best.     The  latter  has  many 

'4^^  OF  THE     ^ 


uhitbrsittI 


266       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

fine  and  familiar  passages.  One  of  the  best  is  that  on 
*' Voltaire  and  the  Lace-Weaver."  His  "  H3'mns  "  are 
the  best  in  our  older  collections.  Who  has  not  felt  their 
gentle  power,  and  been  inspired  by  their  earnest  piet}*, 
as  he  sings  verses  like  this?  — 


'  Return,  O  holy  Dove,  return ! 

Sweet  messenger  of  rest ! 
I  hate  the  sins  that  made  thee  mourn, 

And  drove  thee  from  my  breast." 


H 


Cowper's  poem  on  the  receipt  of  his  mother's  picture  is 
full  of  tender  filial  pathos,  and  has  been  much  admired. 
His  translations  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  are  the  least 
successful  -of  his  performances.  His  beautiful  fable  of 
"  The  Nightingale  and  the  Glow- Worm  "  is  one  of  his 
happiest  productions.  Cowper's  subjects  are  not  alwajs 
poetically  chosen,  and  he  is  sometimes  minutely  prosaic 
enough  to  satisfy  the  soul  of  the  most  inveterate  realist,  m 
His  ''Poetical  Epistles'*  and  many  other  shorter  poems 
are  truly  in  the  *'  pitch  of  prose ;  "  and  when  he  begins 
by  informing 

**  Dear  Anna  "  that  "  between  friend  and  friend 
Prose  answers  every  common  end," 

we  most  heartily  say  Amen,  and  most  sincerely  regret  that 
an  wwcommon  end  should  have  induced  him  to  "■  drop  into 
poetry."  His  poem  to  Mary,  addressed  to  Mrs.  Unwin, 
old,  infirm,  and  fast  fading  out  of  his  life,  but  still  divinely 
dear  to  his  tender,  faithful  heart,  is  one  of  his  most  beautiful 
productions,  and  may  be  given  as  a  specimen  of  his  simple, 
earnest  pathos. 

"  The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast. 
Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 
My  Mary ! 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPER.     267 

"  Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  them  daily  weaker  grow  — 
'  T  was  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low. 
My  Mary ! 

**  Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore. 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 
My  Mary ! 

"  For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still. 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will. 
My  Mary ! 

"  But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part. 
And  all  thy  threads,  with  magic  art. 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart. 
My  Mary ! 

**  Thy  silver  locks  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary ! 

**  For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  1 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 

"Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 
Yet  gently  prest,  press  gently  mine, 
My  Mary ! 

"  Such  feebleness  of  limb  thou  prov'st, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st, 
Upheld  by  two,  yet  still  thou  lov'st, 

My  Mary ! 

"And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill. 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary ! 


268 


ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


"But  ah!  by  constant  heed  I  know, 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show, 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 
My  Mary  1 

"  And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  to  the  past. 
Thy  worn-out  heart  wiU  break  at  last. 
My  Mary ! " 

In  1782  appeared  anonymously  his  famous  "  History  of 
John  Gilpin."  It  is  one  of  the  most  delightfully  humorous 
poems  in  the  language.  To  "  the  man  who  laughs  "  what 
picture  can  be  more  soul-satisfying  than  that  of  this  "linen- 
draper  bold,"  intent  upon  celebrating  his  conjugal  anniver- 
sar}',  and  mounting,  with  the  *'  caution  and  good  heed  "  of 
an  unaccustomed  equestrian,  the  snorting  beast,  loaned  for 
the  occasion,  — 


"  Stooping  down  as  needs  he  must. 
Who  cannot  sit  upright,"  — 

while  the  frighted  horse,  clasped  by  his  mane, 

"...  which  never  in  that  sort 
Had  handled  been  before, 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 
Did  wonder  more  and  more  !  "     ^ 


I 


But  Gilpin,  still  valiantly  clinging  to  his  back,  wigless, 
hatless,  with  his  long  red  cloak  streaming  in  the  wind, 
flies  past  the  Bell  at  Edmonton,  where  from  the  balcony 
his  spouse  and  the  alread3'-arrived  and  waiting  participants 
of  his  holida}'  —  "six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog"  — 
astonished  to  behold  the  Hamlet  of  their  play  left  out 
and  tantalizingly  scampering  away  under  their  very  noses, 
thus  hail  him :  — 


YOUNG,  THOMSON,  GOLDSMITH,  GRAY,  COWPEH.    269 

"  *  Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  !  —  Here  's  the  house ! ' 
They  all  at  once  did  cry ; 
*  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired !  * 
Said  Gilpin:  'So  am  I!"' 

But  on  he  goes,  the  turnpike  gates  fl3'ing  open  before  him, 
and  the  hue  and  cry  behind,  the  tollmen  all  thinking  that 
he  "  rode  a  race." 

"  And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 
For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 
He  did  again  get  down.'* 

We  may  well  spare  from  history  the  august  figure  of 
Alexander  the  Great  trampling  down  the  world  on  his 
Bucephalus  ;  but  dought}'  John  Gilpin,  never !  On  the 
back  of  the  Calendar's  runaway,  this  famous  equestrian 
hero  must  forever  "  drink  the  wind  of  his  own  speed,"  and 
in  this  sound  poetical  faith  — 

"  Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king, 
And  Gilpin,  long  live  he." 


270  ENGLISH  POETRY   AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS. 

IN  the  reign  of  Edward  II.  (1307-27)  —  which  is 
thought  to  be  the  era  of  the  earlier  metrical  ro- 
mances of  Scotland  —  lived  Thomas  of  Ercildoune,  noted 
in  Scottish  tradition  under  the  appellation  of  Thomas 
the  Rhymer. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  in  1804  published  a  composition  of  this 
poet  entitled  ''  Sir  Tristrem,"  which  he  supposed  upon  tol- 
erable evidence  to  have  been  written  in  the  middle  or  latter 
part  of  the  thirteenth  century,  though  the  soundness  of  his 
theory  has  since  been  denied.  The  romance  of  ' '  Sir  Tris- 
trem" was  taken  from  the  Auchinleck  manuscript  in  the 
Advocates'  Library  at  Edinburgh,  —  a  volume  containing 
in  all  forty-four  pieces  of  ancient  poetr}^,  complete  or 
imperfect,  and  supposed  to  have  been  compiled  in  an 
Anglo-Norman  convent  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  four- 
teenth century. 

The  language  spoken  by  the  Lowland  Scotch  in  the  ear- 
lier part  of  the  fourteenth  century,  which  is  the  age  of  the 
birth  of  Scottish  poetrj-,  must  have  sprung  out  of  the  same 
sources  and  been  affected  by  nearly  the  same  circumstances 
as  the  English  of  the  same  age,  and  is  said  to  have  been 
distinguished  from  that  of  the  south  of  England,  which  ac- 
quired the  ascendenc}'  over  that  of  the  northern  counties  as 
the  literary  dialect,  by  little  more  than  the  retention  of  many 
vocables  which  had  become  obsolete  among  the  English,  and 
a  generally  broader  enunciation  of  the  vowel  sounds. 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.       271 

Chaucer  had  in  the  latter  part  of  that  century  a  more 
formidable  rival  than  his  friend  Gower,  in  the  person  of  a 
Scotchman  by  the  name  of  John  Barbour.  Of  his  personal 
histor}'  but  little  is  known.  In  the  3'ear  1320  he  is  st3'led 
Archdeacon  of  Aberdeen  in  a  passport  granted  him  b}-  Ed- 
ward III.  at  the  request  of  King  David  II.  of  Scotland,  to 
come  into  England  for  the  purpose  of  studj'ing  in  the  uni- 
versity at  Oxford.  Three  other  passports  are  extant ;  the 
third,  in  1368,  secures  him  protection  in  coming  with  two 
valets  and  two  horses  into  England,  and  travelling  through 
the  same  on  his  way  to  France,  for  the  purpose  of  studying 
there. ' 

It  is  to  be  inferred  from  this  outfit  that  Barbour  was  in 
most  prosaically^  "  comfortable  circumstances."  His  death 
is  known  to  have  taken  place  at  an  advanced  age,  in  1395. 
His  sole  remaining  work,  ''  The  Bruce/*  is  a  complete  his- 
tory of  the  memorable  transactions  by  which  King  Robert 
asserted  the  independency  of  Scotland,  and  obtained  its 
crown  for  himself  and  famil}-. 

"  The  Bruce  "  is  a  poem  of  great  length,  comprising 
between  twelve  and  thirteen  thousand  lines.  The  main 
texture  of  the  narrative  has  always  been  regarded  as  an 
authentic  historical  monument,  and  has  been  received  and 
quoted  b}^  all  subsequent  writers  and  investigators  of 
Scottish  historj'. 

Barbour  lacks  the  grand  inventive  imagination  of  Chau- 
cer, and  has  neither  his  wit  nor  humor  nor  his  delicate 
sense  of  the  beautiful ;  but  his  diction  is  clear,  strong,  and 
direct,  and  his  narrative  descriptive,  animated,  and  pictu- 
resque. And  though  his  poem  lacks  sweetness  and  harmony, 
it  is  pervaded  with  generous  and  dignified  sentiment.  He 
paints  the  injuries  of  his  country  with  distinctness  and 
force,  and  celebrates  the  heroism  of  her  champions  and 
deliverers  with  admiration  and  sympathy. 


272       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


Cotemporary  with  Barbour,  and  like  him  adorning  the 
language  by  a  strain  of  versification,  expression,  and  poeti- 
cal imager}^  far  superior  to  his  age,  is  Blind  Harrj-,  who 
about  1460  wrote  a  heroic  poem  entitled  "  The  Adven- 
tures of  Sir  William  Wallace."  Of  this  author  nothing  is 
known  but  that  he  was  blind  from  infanc}',  and  that  he 
wrote  this  poem,  and  made  a  living  by  reciting  it,  or  parts 
of  it,  before  company.  It  abounds  in  marvellous  stories  of 
the  prowess  of  Scotland's  grand  old  hero,  whose  name  will 
forever  thrill  along  the  chords  of  the  national  heart. 

Some  of  Harry's  legends  are  thought  to  have  no  founda- 
tion in  fact,  though  from  the  simple  unaffectedness  Of  the 
narrative  it  is  supposed  that  the  author  meant  only  to  state 
real  facts.  Blind  Harry's  poem  has  been  commended  for 
elevated  sentiment  and  poetical  effect,  and  a  paraphrase  of 
it  into  modern  Scotch,  by  William  Hamilton,  has  long  been 
a  popular  volume  among  the  Scottish  peasantrj*.  Dr. 
Currie,  in  his  Life  of  Burns,  affirms  that  the  study  of  this 
book  had  great  eflTect  in  kindling  the  genius  of  this  gifted 
son  of  Scotland. 

King  James  I.  of  Scotland  may  be  considered  as  the 
most  eminent  of  all  her  poets  of  the  early  part  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  James  was  in  his  eleventh  year  when 
he  was  carried  away  to  England,  in  1405,  by  Henry  IV. ; 
and  it  is  probable  that  he  still  retained  some  of  the  pecu- 
liarities of  his  native  idiom,  though  the  poem  may  be  re- 
garded as  written  in  English  rather  than  in  Scotch.  The 
difference,  however,  between  the  two  dialects  was  not  so 
great  at  this  earlj^  date  as  it  afterward  became.  The  only 
certain  production  of  his  is  a  long  poem  called  "The  King's 
Quhair"  (or  '^book")  in  which  he  describes  the  circum- 
stances of  an  attachment  formed  for  a  beautiful  English 
princess  while  a  prisoner  in  Windsor  Castle.  This  lady, 
Joanna  Beaufort,  he  is  said  first  to  have  beheld  walking  in 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.      273 

the  garden  below,  from  the  window  of  bis  prison  in  the 
Round  Tower.  She  was  afterward  married  to  the  king, 
and  accompanied  him  to  Scotland. 

*'  The  King's  Quhair  "  is  a  serious  poem  of  nearly  four- 
teen hundred  lines ;  the  style  is  in  great  part  allegorical, 
and  the  poet  is  evidently  an  imitator  of  Chaucer.  He  is 
said  to  have  approached  nearer  to  the  excellence  of  his 
great  model  than  any  poet  before  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
It  contains  descriptive  passages  of  great  beauty.  Thus 
he  addresses  this  beautiful  vision,  at  whose  sudden  appari- 
tion he  says,  — 

"  Anon,  astart 
The  blood  of  all  my  body  to  my  heart. 

Ah,  sweet !  are  ye  a  worldly  creature, 
Or  heavenly  thing  in  likeness  of  nature  ? 


Or  are  ye  God  Cupidis  own  princess, 

And  comin  are  to  loose  me  out  of  band  ? 

Or  are  ye  very  Nature  the  goddess, 

That  have  depainted  with  your  heavenly  hand, 

This  garden  full  of  flowers  as  they  stand  ? 

What  shall  I  think,  alas !  what  reverence 

Shall  I  minister  unto  your  excellence  ? 

If  ye  a  goddess  be,  and  that  ye  like 

To  do  me  pain,  I  may  it  not  astart : 

If  ye  be  warldly  wight,  that  doth  me  sike, 

"Why  list  God  make  you  so,  my  dearest  heart, 

To  do  a  seely  prisoner  this  smart, 

That  loves  you  all,  and  wot  of  nought  but  woe  ? 

And  therefore  mercy,  sweet !  sin'  it  is  so." 

King  James  was  assassinated  at  Perth  in  the  year  1437,  at 
the  age  of  forty-two. 

It  has  been  observed  that  "  most  of  the  English  poets 
immediately  succeeding  Chaucer  seem  rather  relapsing  into 
barbarism  than  availing  themselves  of  those  striking  orna- 

18 


274       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

ments  which  his  judgment  and  imagination  had  disclosed. 
Yet  during  this  poetical  dearth  in  England,  as  if  the  singu- 
lar fortunes  of  James  I.  were  shaped  on  purpose  to  transfer 
the  manner  and  spirit  of  Chaucer's  poetry  into  Scotland, 
that  country'  produced  a  race  of  true  poets."  One  of  the 
earliest  after  James  I.  is  Robert  Henryson.  Of  this  poet's 
era  little  is  known.  He  was  alive  and  ver}'  old  about  the 
close  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  was  at  some  period  of  his 
life  a  school-master  at  Dunfermline.  He  wrote  a  series  of 
fables,  some  miscellaneous  poems,  and  the  beautiful  pas- 
toral of  "  Robyn  and  Makyne,"  printed  by  Bishop  Percy 
in  his  "  Reliques." 

William  Dunbar,  whom  Sir  Walter  Scott  considered  a 
poet  unrivalled  by  an^^  that  Scotland  has  ever  produced, 
and  who  ma}"  perhaps  be  placed  on  the  same  line  with  the 
inspired  ploughman  in  comic  power  and  superior  depth 
of  passion,  is  even  said  to  excel  him  in  strength  and 
general  fertility  of  invention.  His  works  were,  with  the 
exception  of  one  or  two  pieces,  confined  to  an  obscure 
manuscript,  from  which  they  were  onl}"  rescued  when  their 
language  had  become  so  antiquated  as  to  render  the  world 
insensible  in  a  great  measure  to  their  man}-  excellences. 
From  this  circumstance  popular  fame  has  done  but  little 
justice  to  this  gifted  poet,  who  is  said  to  have  been  alike 
master  of  every  kind  of  verse. 

Dunbar  flourished  at  the  court  of  James  IV.  at  the  end 
of  the  fifteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
turies. After  taking  his  degree,  in  1479,  at  St.  Andrew's, 
he  became  one  of  the  order  of  Grey  Friars,  and  travelled 
in  that  capacity  for  some  3'ears  in  England  and  France  as 
well  as  Scotland,  preaching,  as  was  the  custom  of  the  order, 
and  living  b}-  the  alms  of  the  pious.  The  poet  renounced 
at  last  this  sordid  profession,  which  involved  a  constant 
exercise  of  falsehood,  deceit,  and  flatter3\ 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.       275 

He  is  thought  to  have  been  afterward  employed  by  King 
James  in  connection  with  various  foreign  embassies,  and 
in  this  capacit}^  to  have  visited  Italy,  Spain,  and  France, 
besides  England  and  Ireland,  thus  acquiring  that  knowl- 
edge of  mankind  which  is  an  important  part  of  the  educa- 
tion of  the  poet.  For  some  3'ears  ensuing  he  is  said  to 
have  lived  at  court,  receiving  a  pension  from  his  royal 
master,  whom  he  regaled  with  his  compositions  and  the 
charms  of  his  conversation,  —  a  servile  life  which  ill  ac- 
corded with  his  manly  Scottish  spirit,  and  at  which  he 
repines  greatly  in  his  poems.  He  died  about  1520,  at 
the  age  of  sixty. 

Dunbar's  poems  are  of  three  classes,  —  the  allegorical, 
the  moral,  and  the  comic.  Of  his  allegorical  poem  entitled 
"  The  Dance,"  it  has  been  said  that  "  for  strength  and 
vividness  of  painting  it  would  stand  a  comparison  with 
an}^  poem  in  the  language." 

Another  of  the  distinguished  luminaries  that  marked  the 
restoration  of  letters  in  Scotland  at  the  commencement  of 
the  sixteenth  century  is  Gavin  Douglas.  Descended  from 
a  noble  family  and  born  in  the  3'ear  1475,  Douglas  was  a 
scholar  of  distinguished  elegance.  His  accomplishments 
obtained  him  high  promotion  in  the  Church.  In  the  year 
1513,  to  avoid  persecution,  he  fled  from  Scotland  to  Eng- 
land, where  Henry  VIII.  received  him  graciously,  and  in 
consideration  of  his  literary  merits  allowed  him  a  liberal 
pension.  He  died  of  the  plague  in  London  and  was  buried 
in  the  Savoy  Church  in  the  year  1521. 

Douglas  was  eminent  for  his  cultivation  of  the  vernacular 
poetry  of  his  country.  His  most  remarkable  production  is 
the  translation  of  Virgil's  ^neid  into  Scottish  heroics,  being 
the  first  version  of  a  Latin  classic  into  any  British  tongue. 
Though  in  too  obsolete  a  language  ever  to  regain  popu- 
larity, this  work  is  allowed  by  critics  to  be  a  masterly 


276       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


performance.  His  principal  original  composition  is  a  long 
poem  entitled  '*  The  Palace  of  Honour,"  bearing  so  strong 
a  resemblance  to  Banyan's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress"  that  it  is 
thought  Bunyan  could  scarcel}'  have  been  ignorant  of  it. 

Sir  David  Lyndsa}',  born  about  1490,  closes  the  list  of 
Scottish  poets  belonging  to  this  period.  He  was  an  officer 
at  court  and  a  favorite  of  James  V.,  and  died  about  the 
year  1555. 

Lyndsa}-  cannot  lay  claim  to  an}^  high  imaginative  power, 
but  his  poems  are  characterized  bj^  infinite  wit,  spirit,  and 
variety  in  all  the  familiar  forms  of  poetry.  He  chiefly  shone 
as  a  satirical  and  humorous  writer.  Aiming  his  satire  at 
the  dissolute  clergy,  he  is  said  to  have  lashed  up  the  pop- 
ular contempt  for  that  venerable  but  then  tottering  fabric, 
the  Catholic  Church,  and  thus  to  have  done  high  service  to 
the  Reformation  in  Scotland. 

For  nearly  the  whole  of  the  seventeenth  century  not  even 
the  name  of  a  Scottish  poet  occurs.  The  religious  aus- 
terity of  the  Covenanters,  still  hanging  over  Scotland,  had 
damped  the  efforts  of  poets  and  dramatists  ;  j'et  still  among 
her  banks  and  braes,  singing  low  and  sweet  to  itself  like  a 
hidden  April  rill,  went  many  a  comic  song  of  broad  rustic 
humor,  and  many  a  tear-steeped  ballad  in  "homely  westlin 
jingle,"  preluding  the  rich  song  of  that  glorious  peasant- 
poet  who  woke  at  last  among  her  hills  a  harp  passionate 
and  melodious  as  that  which  burning  Sappho  swept  of 
old  in  classic  Greece. 

Allan  Ramsay,  born  in  1686,  is  accounted  the  proper 
successor  of  Sir  David  Lyndsa}^,  after  the  lapse  of  more 
than  a  century  and  a  half.  Ramsaj^  belongs  to  the  order 
of  self-taught  poets,  his  original  profession  being  that  of  a 
wig-maker.  At  twenty-six  he  commenced  writing,  and 
was  made  poet  laureate  to  a  convivial  society'  of  5"oung 
men,  called  the  "  Easy  Club,"  writing  various  light  pieces. 


SCOTTISH  POETRY    AND  ROBERT  BURNS.      277 

chiefly  of  a  local  and  humorous  description,  which  were 
sold  at  a  penny  each,  and  became  exceedingly  popular. 
In  the  year  1712  he  married  the  daughter  of  an  author, 
Christina  Ross,  who  was  his  faithful  partner  for  more 
than  thirty  years. 

Ramsay's  continuation  of  King  James's  '*  Christ's  Kirk 
on  the  Green  "  was  his  first  published  performance,  ex- 
ecuted with  genuine  humor,  fanc}^  and  a  perfect  mastery 
of  the  Scottish  language.  In  1712  appeared  his  "  Gentle 
Shepherd,"  which  was  received  with  universal  approba- 
tion, and  republished  both  at  London  and  Dublin. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  poet  had  left  off  wig-making,  and 
opened  a  bookseller's  shop.  Ramsay  estabhshed  the  first 
circulating  library  in  Scotland  ;  and  led  by  the  promptings 
of  a  taste  then  rare  in  his  country,  expended  his  savings 
in  the  erection  of  a  theatre  for  the  performance  of  the  reg- 
ular drama,  which  the  Edinburgh  magistrates  shut  up  for 
him,  leaving  him,  it  is  said,  without  redress. 

Ramsay  associated  with  the  leading  nobility,  lawyers, 
wits,  and  literati  of  Scotland,  and  was  the  Pope,  or  Swift, 
of  the  North.  He  died  in  1758.  His  verse  is  in  general 
neither  very  refined  nor  imaginative ;  he  excels  in  native 
humor  and  in  livel}',  original  sketches  of  Scottish  life.  His 
lyrics  lack  grace  and  elegance,  yet  many  of  them  abound 
in  rustic  hilarity  and  humor,  and  though  far  inferior  to 
those  of  Burns,  are  still  favorites  with  the  lovers  of  Scot- 
tish song.  Ramsay  has  taste,  judgment,  and  good  sense, 
and  it  has  been  said  of  him  that  "  though  he  wrote  trash  in 
all  departments,  he  really  failed  in  none."  His  fame  rests 
upon  his  "Gentle  Shepherd,"  which  is  his  great  work,  and 
has  been  allowed  by  a  modern  critic  to  be  perhaps  the 
finest  pastoral  drama  in  the  world.  Pope  greatly  admired 
this  poem,  and  Ramsay  was,  both  with  himself  and  Gay,  a 
favorite. 


278  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

In  his  life  Ramsay  showed  that  citizen-like  good  sense 
which  Heaven  too  seldom  bestows  upon  the  poet.  With 
true  Scottish  thrift  he  kept  his  purse  well  filled,  and  wisely 
gave  over  poetry  before  age  had  cooled  his  fancy,  unwill- 
ing to  risk  the  reputation  he  had  alread}^  acquired,  as  he 
thus  tells  us,  like  the  canny  practical  Scotchman  that  he 
was:  — 

*'  Frae  twenty-five  to  five  and  forty 
My  muse  was  neither  sweer  nor  dorty ; 
My  Pegasus  would  break  his  tether, 
E'en  at  the  shagging  of  a  feather, 
And  through  ideas  scour  like  drift. 
Streaking  his  wings  up  to  the  lift ; 
Then,  then  my  soul  was  in  a  low. 
That  gart  my  numbers  safely  row. 
But  eild  and  judgement  gin  to  say, 
Let  be  your  sangs,  and  learn  to  pray." 

Bums  was  immediately  preceded  by  a  few  native  poets 
talent  and  popularity,  —  Alexander  Ross,  a  school-master 
in  Lochlee,  died  in  1784  ;  John  Lowe,  from  1750  to  1798, 
author  of  the  fine  pathetic  ballad  entitled  "  Mary's  Dream/* 
his  onl}'  work  worthy  of  preservation  ;  Lady  Anne  Barnard, 
who  wrote  that  most  perfect  and  tender  of  all  ballads, 
"  Auld  Robin  Gray,*'  and  kept  its  authorship  a  secret  for 
the  long  period  of  fifty  j^ears  ;  and  Robert  Fergusson,  born 
1751,  died  1774.  The  melancholy  story  of  Fergusson's  life, 
shortened  b}^  dissipation,  darkened  by  remorse,  and  ending 
in  insanity,  is  of  mournful  interest,  which  deepens  when 
we  regard  him  as  the  immediate  forerunner  of  Burns, 
rising  on  Scotland  like  that  — 

"...  Prophet  star, 
That  in  the  dewy  trances  of  the  dawn. 
Floats  o'er  the  solitary  hills  afar, 
And  brings  sweet  tidings  of  the  ling'ring  morn." 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.      279 

In  Canongate  churchj'ard,  where  Fergusson  had  slept 
unnoticed  for  man}^  years,  Burns,  with  that  loving  rev- 
erence for  kindred  genius  which  marked  his  noble  na- 
ture, erected  a  simple  stone  above  his  brother  poet's 
grave. 

Fergusson  was  the  poet  of  Scottish  city  life.  Deficient 
in  energy  and  passion,  yet  with  a  keen  perception  of  the 
ludicrous,  and  a  copious  and  expressive  flow  of  language, 
he  excelled  in  accurate  painting  of  scenes  of  real  life  and 
traits  of  Scottish  character.  His  pieces,  which  were  chiefly 
contributed  to  the  ''  Weekly  Magazine,"  were  collected 
and  published  in  one  volume  in  1773,  and  were  well  re- 
ceived by  the  public. 

Burns,  who,  like  Shakespeare,  is  said  to  have  sometimes 
condescended  to  work  after  inferior  models,  copied  the 
style  of  Fergusson,  whose  writings  he  greatly  admired, 
even  preferring  them  to  those  of  Ramsay.  "  The  Farm- 
er's Ingle  "  of  this  poet  is  supposed  to  have  suggested  to 
Burns  the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night;"  but  Fergusson*s 
poem  is  a  mere  inventory  of  a  farm-house.  Burns,  while 
he  is  as  faithful  in  description,  has  added  passion,  senti- 
ment, and  patriotism  to  the  subject.  There  is  all  the 
difference  in  the  two  poems  that  exists  between  Dutch 
and  ItaUan  painting.  Mere  mechanical  skill  may  por- 
tray the  perfect  form,  but  a  higher  inspiration  can  alone 
hope  to  grasp  the  soul  in  all  art. 

After  the  publication  of  Fergusson's  volume  of  poems, 
there  was  a  dearth  in  Scottish  poetry  for  an  interval  of 
thirteen  years,  and  then  suddenly  Burns  appeared,  and  lo ! 
all  the  land  was  showered  with  song,  and  a  world  of  pas- 
sion and  beauty  was  laid  open  to  her  sons  b}^  that  rare 
genius  who  in  his  short  life  added  new  interest  and  glory 
to  his  country,  and  enriched  and  embellished  her  for  all 
ages. 


280  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


Robert  Burns  was  born  in  the  parish  of  Allowa\'  on  the 
25th  of  Januar}',  1759.  His  father  was  of  the  north  of 
Scotland,  and  for  the  first  six  or  seven  years  of  the  poet's 
life  a  gardener,  to  which  occupation  he  was  bred.  "  The 
dearest  wish  and  purpose  of  this  worthy  man  was,"  says 
Robert,  "  to  keep  his  children  under  his  eye  till  they  could 
discern  good  from  evil ; "  so  with  the  assistance  of  his  gen- 
erous master  he  ventured  on  a  small  farm  on  his  estate. 
There,  in  his  humble  dwelUng,  which  was,  it  is  said,  lit- 
erally a  '*  tabernacle  of  cla}-,"  with  the  exception  of  a 
little  thatch,  and  of  which  he  himself  was  the  architect, 
under  the  pressure  of  earlj^  and  incessant  toil,  of  inferior 
and  often  scanty  nutriment,  was  reared  that  bard  whose 
genius  has  been  for  more  than  half  a  century  the  glory 
of  Scotland. 

What  education  he  could  afford  the  father  gave  to  his 
sons.  Robert  was  taught  Enghsh  well,  and  by  the  time  he 
was  eleven  years  of  age  is  said  to  have  been  a  critic  in 
substantives,  verbs,  and  participles.  He  was  also  taught 
writing,  had  a  whole  fortnight's  French,  and  was  one  sum- 
mer quarter  at  land-surveying.  For  the  facility  of  his 
memory  he  was  greatly  indebted  to  his  good  father,  whose 
method  was  to  have  his  instructor  make  him  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  meaning  of  ever}-  word  which  was  to 
be  committed  to  memory.  Thus,  at  an  earlier  period  than 
common  the  boj^  was  taught  the  arrangement  of  words  in 
sentences,  as  well  as  a  varied  expression. 

Burns,  with  his  small  library,  which  until  his  twenty- 
third  year  consisted  of  the  "  Spectator,"  Pope's  works, 
Allan  Ramsay,  a  collection  of  English  songs,  and  a  few 
more  less  considerable  works,  knew  nothing  of  the  dissi- 
pation of  reading ;  and  as  his  attention  was  not  distracted 
by  a  multitude  of  volumes,  his  mind  developed  with  orig- 
inal and  robust  vigor. 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.       281 

It  has  been  justl}'  said  that  *'  the  true  elements  of  poetry 
were  in  the  life  of  Burns,  no  less  than  in  his  writings."  In 
bodily  frame  he  rose  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  ;  of  supe- 
rior agility  and  strength,  in  the  various  labors  of  the  farm 
he  excelled  all  his  competitors,  and  his  brother,  Gilbert 
Burns,  declares  that  in  mowing  —  the  exercise  that  is  said 
to  try  all  the  muscles  most  severel}'  —  Robert  was  the  only 
man  that  at  the  end  of  a  summer's  day  he  was  ever  obliged 
to  acknowledge  his  master. 

At  this  period  of  his  life  Burns  has  been  thus  de- 
scribed :  — 

"  Elevated  by  a  manly  integrity  of  character,  which  as  a  peas- 
ant he  guarded  with  jealous  dignity;  a  true  patriot,  loving  the 
very  soil  of  his  country,  and  worshipping  the  memory  of  her  an- 
cient heroes ;  exploring  every  scene  and  memorial  of  departed 
greatness ;  burning  with  generous  emotions  to  do  something  for 
old  Scotland's  sake;  yet  simple,  and  loving  the  sentiments  and 
manners  of  himself  and  his  rustic  compeers.  The  wild  upheav- 
ings  of  his  ambition;  the  precocious  maturity  of  his  intellect  and 
passions ;  the  sturdy  frame  linked  to  the  delicate  sensibility  that 
mourned  the  destruction  of  the  '  crimson-tipped  '  daisy,  and 
wept  over  the  ruined  hopes  of  a  '  wee-bit  mousie,'  — all  belong 
to  the  true  spirit  of  romantic  poetry." 

Burns,  whose  passionate  attachment  to  the  society  of 
woman  is  well  known,  was  from  boyhood  to  manhood,  as 
his  brother  avers,  "  constantly  the  victim  of  some  fair 
enslaver,"  though  governed  ever  by  the  strictest  rules  of 
virtue  and  modest}-,  from  which  he  never  deviated  till  he 
reached  his  twenty-third  year.  He  was  at  that  time  be- 
trayed by  his  heart  into  an  imprudent  connection  with 
Jean  Armour,  afterward  Mrs.  Burns,  a  misstep  in  his  life 
which,  tliough  it  may  deserve  our  censure,  was  honorably 
retrieved  b^'  a  legal  though  private  and  irregular  marriage, 
which  in  Scotland  is  more  honorable  and  binding  than 


282  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


elsewhere.  Burns  in  his  then  destitute  circumstances  dare 
not  undertake  the  support  of  a  family*.  It  was  agreed  that 
he  should  go  to  Jamaica  to  push  his  fortunes,  his  bonnie 
Jean  remaining  in  the  mean  time  with  her  father  till  it 
might  please  Providence  to  put  in  his  power  the  means 
to  maintain  his  child  and  herself. 

As  he  had  not  sufficient  money  to  pa}'  his  passage,  and 
the  vessel  in  which  he  had  taken  it  was  not  to  sail  for  some 
time,  he  was  advised  to  publish  his  poems  in  the  mean 
time  by  subscription,  as  a  likely  way  of  getting  a  small  in- 
crease to  his  funds.  Accordingly,  subscription  bills  were 
issued  immediatel}',  and  the  printing  was  commenced  in 
Kilmarnock,  his  preparations  going  on  at  tlie  same  time 
for  his  vo3'age. 

Thus  in  the  summer  of  1786  Burns  issued  his  first  volume. 
It  contained  matter  for  all  minds,  —  for  the  lively  and  the 
thoughtful,  the  poetical  enthusiast,  and  the  man  of  the 
world ;  and  so  eagerly  was  the  book  sought  after  that 
where  copies  of  it  could  not  be  obtained,  many  of  the 
poems  were  transcribed,  and  sent  round  in  manuscript 
among  admiring  circles.  A  second  edition  was  published 
in  Edinburgh  in  1787,  no  less  than  twenty-eight  hundred 
copies  being  subscribed  for  by  fifteen  hundred  individuals  ! 
Burns,  raised  b}-  this  unexpected  good  fortune  from  the 
most  disheartening  poverty  to  comparative  independence, 
gave  up  the  projected  voyage  to  Jamaica,  took  a  farm  at 
EUisland,  and  married  with  all  due  solemnities  his  faithful 
Jean,  —  "a  hale,  sprightly  damsel,  bred  among  the  hay  and 
heather,*'  lacking,  it  is  true,  that  polish  of  mind  and  deli- 
cacy of  soul  which  a  poet  might  seek  in  his  ideal,  yet 
endowed  with  rustic  grace,  mother- wit,  modest}-,  and  a 
generous,  loving  nature,  united  to  a  sound,  health}^  frame, 
and  proving  through  good  and  ill  a  fond  and  faithful  wife. 
In  1788  Burns  obtained  what  he  anxiously  desired  in  addi- 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.       283 

tion  to  bis  means  as  a  farmer,  —  an  appointment  in  the  ex- 
cise ;  but  the  duties  of  this  office  and  bis  own  convivial 
habits  interfering  with  the  management  of  his  farm,  in 
1791  be  gladly  abandoned  it,  subsisting  hereafter  entirely 
upon  his  excise  salary  of  seventy  pounds  per  annum. 

Having  acquitted  himself  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  board, 
and  hoping  to  support  himself  and  family  (now  consisting 
of  a  wife  and  four  bairns)  on  this  humble  income  till  pro- 
motion arrived,  he  had  disposed  of  his  stock  and  crop  at 
public  auction,  and  removed  to  a  small  house  which  he 
had  taken  at  Dumfries.  Promotion  never  came.  *'  The 
age,"  says  Craik,  "  was  unworthy  of  such  a  gift  from 
Heaven  as  its  glorious  peasant-poet.  His  blood  was  too 
hot ;  his  pulse  beat  too  tumultuously ;  and  it  treated  him 
rather  like  an  untamable,  howling  hj-ena  that  required  to 
be  caged  and  chained,  if  not  absolutely"  suffocated  at  once, 
than  as  a  spirit  of  divinest  song.  Never,  surelj-,"  he  adds, 
"  did  men  so  put  a  busliel  upon  a  light,  first  to  hide,  and 
afterwards  to  extinguish  it."  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  his  faithful 
and  admirable  friend,  Burns  thus  writes  about  six  months 
before  his  death :  — 

"  There  had  much  need  be  many  pleasures  annexed  to  the 
states  of  husband  and  father,  for  God  knows  they  have  many 
peculiar  cares.  I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  anxious,  sleepless 
hours  these  ties  frequently  give  me.  I  see  a  train  of  helpless 
little  folks,  me  and  my  exertions  all  their  stay ;  and  on  what  a 
brittle  thread  does  the  life  of  man  hang !  If  I  am  nipt  off  at 
the  command  of  fate,  even  in  all  the  vigor  of  manhood  as  I  am, 
—  such  things  happen  every  day,  —  gracious  God !  what  would 
become  of  my  little  flock  ! 

**  A  father  on  his  death-bed  taking  his  last  leave  of  his  chil- 
dren, has  indeed  woe  enough;  but  the  man  of  competent  for- 
tune leaves  his  sons  and  daughters  independency  and  friends; 
while  I  —  but  I  shall  run  distracted  if  I  think  any  longer  on 
the  subject." 


284  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Burns,  at  the  early  age  of  thirteen,  was  the  principal  la- 
borer on  his  father's  farm  ;  and  though  by  nature  of  robust 
frame,  the  weary  bufieting  of  misfortune,  spare  diet,  and 
over-exertion  had  induced  in  him  at  that  early  age  a  chronic 
depression  of  spirits,  more  terrible  than  the  keenest  phy- 
sical pain,  with  which  he  was  troubled  through  all  his 
after-life.  "  At  this  time,"  writes  his  brother  Gilbert, 
''  he  was  almost  constantly  afflicted  in  the  evenings  with 
a  dull  headache,  which  set  a  future  period  of  his  life  he  ex- 
changed for  a  palpitation  of  the  heart  and  a  threatening  of 
fainting  and  suffocation  in  his  bed  in  the  night-time.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  recollect,"  continues  this  good  brother,  '*  till 
toward  the  end  of  his  commencing  author  (when  his  grow- 
ing celebrity  occasioned  his  being  often  in  compan}-)  to 
have  ever  seen  him  intoxicated ;  nor  was  he  at  all  given 
to  strong  drinking.  Every  member  of  the  family  was  al- 
lowed ordinary  wages  for  the  labor  he  performed  on  the 
farm.  My  brother's  allowance  was  seven  pounds  per 
annum.  I  was  intrusted  with  the  keeping  of  the  fam- 
ily accounts,  and  during  this  period  his  expenses  never 
in  any  one  3'ear  exceeded  his  slender  income.  His  tem- 
perance and  frugality  were  everjthing  that  could  be 
wished." 

At  first  the  poet,  though  addicted  to  excess  in  social 
parties,  still  abstained  from  the  habitual  use  of  strong 
liquors ;  but  poverty,  misfortune,  and  that  cruel  neglect 
which  his  own  conscious  genius,  as  well  as  honest  integ- 
rity, told  him  was  unmerited,  led  him  at  last  into  constant 
excess.  That  predisposition  to  h^-pochondria  which  ease 
of  mind,  temperate  habits,  and  sound  sleep,  with  the  old 
salutary  ploughman's  exercise,  might  have  overcome,  was 
now  aggravated  by  the  steady  use  of  stimulants.  The  in- 
ordinate action  of  the  circulating  s\stem  became  at  length 
habitual ;  the  process  of  nutrition  was  unable  to  supply 


SCOTTISH  POETKY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.      285 

the  waste,  and  the  powers  of  life  began  to  fail.  As  the 
strength  of  his  body  decayed,  his  resolution  became  feebler  ; 
and  though  to  bonnie  Jean  he  acknowledged  his  transgres- 
sions and  promised  amendment  again  and  again,  it  was  too 
late.  The  circles  in  that  awful  vortex  of  ruin  were  fast  en- 
gulfing that  glorious  soul  that  might  have  soared  and  sung 
with  cherubim,  such  harmony  was  in  it ! 

On  his  death-bed  poverty  and  anxiety  still  pursued 
Burns ;  and  when  Reason  at  length  forsook  her  noble 
throne,  the  horrors  of  a  visionary  jail  tortured  the  poor 
delirious  victim  to  the  last.  ••'  His  affecting  exclama- 
tions," says  his  biographer,  ''  were  now  heart-rending." 
On  the  fourth  day  of  this  fever-dream,  God  in  mercy 
released  from  mortal  suffering  this  great  and  ill-fated 
genius. 

Scotland,  after  digging  the  grave  of  her  poet,  might  at 
least  undertake  to  lay  him  becomingly  therein.  And  now 
a  grand  funeral,  military  honors,  and  a  fine  procession 
were  the  laggard  distinctions  paid  to  the  cold  clay  of  her 
proudest  son.  During  this  stately  burial  service  poor 
Jean  bode  wofuU}^  at  home,  and  "as  if  Nature  were  in 
a  bustle  to  fill  a  gap  in  the  universe,"  another  man-child 
was  on  that  da}"  born  under  that  desolate  roof. 

Burns  died  in  great  poverty,  but  free  from  debt ;  and 
his  famil}"  were  placed  above  immediate  want  by  the 
generous  subscription  made  in  the  neighborhood,  of  seven 
hundred  pounds.  Thus  the  melancholy  forebodings  of  the 
husband  and  father  were  happily  disappointed. 

Lacking  that  polish  which  early  association  with  refined 
society  might  have  given  him,  Burns's  appearance  and  man- 
ner were  said  to  have  been  somewhat  peculiar  in  the  high 
circles  into  which  his  genius  gave  him  a  free  passport ;  yet 
such  was  his  irresistible  power  of  fascination  that  he  never 
failed  to  delight  and  to  excel. 


286       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

''None,"  says  his  friend,  Mrs.  Dunlop,  a  lady  of  high  birth 
and  gentle  culture,  *'  ever  outshone  Burns  in  the  charms  —  the 
sorcery,  I  would  almost  call  it  —  of  fascinating  conversation. 

*'  The  rapid  lightnings  of  his  eye  were  always  the  harbingers 
of  some  flash  of  genius ;  his  voice  alone  could  improve  upon  the 
magic  of  his  eye,  —  sonorous,  replete  with  the  finest  modulations, 
it  alternately  captivated  the  ear  with  the  melody  of  poetic  num- 
bers, the  perspicuity  of  nervous  reasoning,  the  keenness  of  satire, 
the  ardent  sallies  of  enthusiastic  patriotism,  or  the  sportiveness 
of  humor.'* 

As  the  wild  passionate  nature  of  Burns  made  him  a  true 
lover,  it  also  made  him,  what  Dr.  Johnson  so  much  ad- 
mires, "a  good  hater;"  his  resentment,  however,  was 
easily  allayed  by  calm  reflection  and  the  ascendency  of  his 
better  nature ;  and  his  manly  and  candid  avowal  of  error 
was,  to  a  generous  mind,  doubly  enhanced  from  its  never 
being  attended  with  servilit}-.  Incapable  of  any  pecuniary 
meanness,  he  carried  his  unsordid  disregard  of  money  to  a 
blamable  excess.  The  mean  barter  of  selfish  publishers  for 
his  poet-craft  he  proudly  disdained  to  accept,  though  fur- 
nishing his  beautiful  lyrics  to  the  "  Museum  "  of  Johnson, 
as  well  as  to  the  greater  work  of  Thomson,  without  fee  or 
reward,  while  the  justice  and  generosity  of  the  latter  was 
constantly  pressing  upon  him  some  recompense. 

Poverty  never  bent  his  honest  dignity  of  spirit ;  even  in 
the  midst  of  distress  he  bore  himself  loftily  to  the  world, 
and  received  with  a  jealous  reluctance  ever}^  offer  of  friendly 
assistance.  "  Light  lie  the  turf  upon  his  breast,"  he  writes, 
"  who  wrote  '  "Reverence  thyself; '  "  and  again,  "  when  I 
am  laid  in  my  grave,  I  wish  to  be  stretched  at  full  length, 
that  I  may  occupy  every  inch  of  ground  which  I  have  a 
right  to." 

The  character  of  Burns  was  naturally  religious,  though 
his  reckless  eff'usions  seem  often  to  give  the  lie  to  this  as- 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.      287 

sertion.  From  a  letter  written  to  his  father  at  an  early 
period  of  his  life,  and  when  in  great  poverty,  this  passage 
may  be  cited  as  an  example  of  his  seriousness :  — 

*'  My  only  pleasurable  employment  is  in  looking  backwards 
and  forwards  in  a  moral  and  religious  way.  *  The  soul,  uneasy 
and  confined  at  home,  rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come,'  and 
I  would  not  exchange  the  noble  enthusiasm  with  which  three 
verses  in  the  seventh  chapter  of  Revelation  inspire  me  for  all 
that  this  world  has  to  offer. 

**  P.  S.  My  meal  is  nearly  out,  and  I  am  going  to  borrow 
until  I  get  some." 

Here  is  a  portion  of  God's  message  of  comfort  to  Burns, 
poor,  hungry,  and  depressed :  ' '  For  the  Lamb  which 
is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  feed  them,  and  shall 
lead  them  unto  living  fountains  of  waters :  and  God  shall 
wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes." 

The  poetry  of  Burns  is  more  fraught  with  matter  and 
meaning  than  with  invention.  His  inspiration  is  that  of 
passion  rather  than  of  imagination,  and  hence  its  universal 
popularity.  The  name  of  Burns  had,  even  before  his  death, 
become  a  household  word  in  his  country.  ''  Of  great  nat- 
ural sagacity,"  observes  Craik,  "  his  logical  faculty  and 
judgment  of  the  first  order,  no  man  ever  had  a  more  sub- 
stantial intellectual  character ;  and  though  he  is  the  great- 
est peasant-poet  that  has  ever  appeared,  his  poetry  is  so 
remarkable  in  itself  that  the  circumstances  in  which  it  was 
produced  hardly  add  anything  to  our  admiration." 

What  Shakespeare  was  to  the  English  drama,  Robert 
Burns  was  to  the  poetry  of  Scotland.  The  lips  of  the 
Scottish  muse,  touched  with  a  burning  coal  from  that  altar 
kindled  by  Nature's  own  hand  in  the  soul  of  her  passion- 
child,  thrilled  with  a  new  and  intenser  life,  and  woke  to  a 
tenderer  and  diviner  song  that  shall  echo  among  her  heath- 


288       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


clad  hills  as  long  as  "  rivers  roll  and  woods  are  green." 
While  in  England  Cowper  was  bringing  poetry  from  the 
narrow  artificial  canals  into  which  Pope  and  his  school  had 
trained  it,  into  the  broader  and  deeper  channels  of  truth 
and  Nature,  Burns  came  as  a  co-worker  in  Scotland.  *'  It 
seemed,"  sa^'S  one  of  his  critics,  ''as  if  a  new  realm  had 
been  added  to  the  dominions  of  the  British  muse,  —  a  new 
and  glorious  creation,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  Nature. 
There  was  the  humor  of  Smollett,  the  pathos  and  tender- 
ness of  Sterne  or  Richardson,  the  real  life  of  Fielding,  and 
the  description  of  Thomson,  all  united  in  delineations  of 
Scottish  scenery  by  an  Ayrshire  ploughman." 

We  cannot  fail  to  observe  that  the  peculiar  dialect  of 
Burns,  being  a  composite  of  Scotch  and  English,  which  he 
varied  at  will,  generally  reserving  the  Scotch  for  the  comic 
and  tender,  and  the  English  for  the  serious  and  lofty,  ren- 
ders his  diction  remarkably  rich  and  copious.  It  has  been 
aptly  remarked  that  "  the  Scottish  language  possesses  ad- 
vantages somewhat  akin  to  that  possessed  by  the  Greek  in 
the  time  of  Homer ;  that  from  having  been  comparatively 
but  little  employed  in  literary  composition,  and  only  imper- 
fectly reduced  under  the  dominion  of  grammar,  many  of  its 
words  have  several  forms  which  are  not  onl}^  convenient 
for  the  exigencies  of  verse,  but  are  used  with  different 
effects  or  shades  of  meaning.  To  those  unfamiliar  with 
the  dialect,  it  is  impossible  to  convey  a  sufficient  notion  of 
the  aptness  of  the  poet's  language,  or  to  give  the  effect  of 
the  diminutives  in  which  the  Scottish  language  is  almost 
as  rich  as  the  Italian.  For  example,  while  the  English 
has  only  its  '  mannikin,'  the  Scotch  has  its  '  mannie,' 
'  mannikie,'  *  bit  mannie,'  '  bit  mannikie,'  '  wee  bit 
mannie,'  '  wee  bit  mannikie,'  '  little  wee  bit  mannie,' 
'  little  wee  bit  mannikie,'  and  so  with  '  wife '  and  many 
other  terms,  while  almost  every  substantive  noun  has  at 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.   289 

least  one  diminutive  form,  such  as  '  mousie,*  '  housie/ 
etc.'' 

In  English,  Burns  has  sometimes  violated  purity  of  dic- 
tion ;  but  his  Scotch  is  as  uniformly  natural  and  correct  as 
it  is  appropriate  and  expressive.  His  picturesque  expres- 
sion, which  so  charms  us,  is  said  to  have  been  equally  the 
result  of  accurate  observation,  careful  study,  and  strong 
feeling.  In  description  he  is  literal,  energetic,  and  true. 
His  views  of  real  life  and  manners  are  finelj'  moralized. 
His  range  of  subjects  was  widely  diversified,  including  the 
romantic  landscape,  the  customs  and  superstitions  of  his 
country,  the  delights  of  convivial  society,  and  the  deli- 
cate and  fervent  emotions  of  our  nature.  In  no  kind 
of  composition  does  he  fail,  unless  perhaps  in  his  epi- 
grams, Nature  having  gifted  him  more  largely  with 
humor  than  wit. 

It  has  been  affirmed  that  ''the  ^Tam  O'Shanter'  of 
Burns  alone,  had  he  never  written  another  S3'llable,  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  have  transmitted  his  name  proudly 
to  posterity."  In  the  introductory  part  of  this  poem,  where 
Tam  beside  the  ale-house  ingle  tipples  with  his  cronies, 
oblivious  of  the  "  mony  lengthened  sage  advices''  of  his 
gude-wife  Kate,  who  "  sits  at  hame  like  gathering  storm, 
nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm,"  character  and  nature 
are  delineated  with  perfect  truth  and  humor ;  and  in  this 
troublous  world  one  might  be  forgiven  a  sigh  of  envy  on 
beholding  Tam  ''  unco  fou,"  o'er  all  the  ills  of  life  vic- 
torious. And  who  will  not  confess  to  an  illicit  longing  for 
that  same  foam}-  draught  in  which  — 

"  Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  so  happy 
E'en  drowned  himself  amang  the  nappy !  '* 

Scarcely  excelled  in  power  of  imagination  by  Shake- 
speare himself  is  Burns's  weird  description  of  the  orgies 

19 


290  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

of  the  witches,  and  the  infernal  scenery  in  which  they 
are  exhibited,  — 

"  Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight, 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  npon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims ; 
Twa  span-lang  wee  unchristened  bairns ; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  from  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 
Five  tomahawks  wi'  bluid  red-rusted ; 
Five  scymetars  wi'  murder  crusted ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 
Three  lawyers'  tongues  turned  inside  out, 
Wi'  lies  seamed  like  a  beggar's  clout, 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu' 
Which  e'en  to  name  would  be  unlawfu'." 

The  introduction  of  a  young  witch  among  the  wrinkled 
withered  beldames  in  ''  the  core  "  is  a  happy  and  original 
idea,  bringing,  as  it  does,  transported  Tam  entirely  into  the 
spirit  of  the  scene,  and  rendering  him  through  her  fascina- 
tions utterly  oblivious  of  the  horrors  of  his  situation  ;  and  it 
has  been  happily  observed  that  Burns's  ''  conceit  of  bring- 
ing even  Satan  himself  within  the  sphere  of  her  charms  is 
unique,  and  adds  greatly  to  the  merit  of  the  composition." 
The  only  fault  found  in  this  poem  is  that  at  the  conclusion 
it  falls  off  in  interest.  This  is  said  to  be  owing  to  Burns 
having  stuck  to  the  popular  tale  of  this  hero ;  for  Tam 
was  not  a  creation  of  fancy,  but  a  real  person.  He  was 
known  in  plain  prose  as  Thomas  Reid,  laborer ;  and  it 
is  recorded  that  he  died  at  Lochwinnock  on  the  9th  of 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.       291 

August,  1823,  borne  down,  it  is  said,  by  the  many  ills  of 
age  and  disease,  and  though  for  months  before  his  death 
incapable  of  labor,  retaining  to  the  last  the  desire  of  being 
*' fou  for  weeks  thegither."  Rare  Tarn!  it  is  good  to 
know  that  thou  hast  in  verit}'  surmounted  "the  lang  Scots 
miles  "  and  "  won  the  key-stone  of  the  brig."  Fair  blow 
the  gowans  on  thy  grave  ! 

Burns  considered  "  Tarn  O'Shanter  "  his  master-piece, 
and  many  critics  have  regarded  it  in  the  same  light ;  yet 
it  does  not  perhaps  embody  what  is  brightest  and  best  in 
his  poetry.  His  address  to  a  mouse  on  turning  up  her 
nest  with  a  plough  in  November  is  richer  in  true  poetic 
light  and  color.  Its  companion  poem  is  that  to  a  daisy. 
In  these  and  in  the  "Cotter's  Saturda}^  Night"  it  has 
been  happily  remarked  that  "  the  poet  is  seen  in  his  hap- 
piest inspiration,  his  brightest  sunshine,  and  his  tenderest 
tears.'*  The  latter  poem  is  familiar  to  all,  and  in  true  and 
touching  description  is  almost  unrivalled. 
J  As  a  picture  of  manners  ' '  Halloween  "  is  Burns's  great- 
est performance.  Written  with  easy  vigor,  in  execution 
perfect,  for  fulness  of  varied  life,  for  truth,  realit}^  and 
flashing  sun-lighted  humor,  it  has  been  pronounced  un- 
equalled. Nothing  finer  than  this  description  of  a  stream 
seen  by  moonlight  is  to  be  found  in  descriptive  poetry : 

"  Whyles  o'er  a  linn  the  burnie  plays. 
As  thro'  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scar  it  strays ; 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't ; 
Whyles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes. 
Below  the  spreading  hazel, 
Unseen  that  night." 

Who  that  reads  it  does  not  bless  Burns  for  writing  in  the 
mother-tongue?     No  English  words  could  have  given  it 


292  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND    POETS. 

such  witcher}^  The  more  considerate  part  of  Burns's  na- 
ture, his  sagacity  and  good  sense,  his  large  heart  and  un- 
derstanding, speaks  in  some  of  his  epistles.  The  one 
addressed  to  Andrew  Aiken  is  said  to  have  been  more 
salutary  in  a  moral  sense  to  the  young  men  of  Scotland 
than  any  sermon  ever  published  in  that  country.  That 
to  his  brother  poet  Davie  is  equally  good. 

More  elevated  and  impassioned  is  the  poem  entitled 
"  The  Vision,"  which  has  been  termed  "  the  finest  reve- 
lation ever  made  of  the  romantic  hope  and  ambition  of 
a  3'outhful  poet."  In  the  last  stanza  we  maj^  observe 
that  Burns  rises  in  his  inspiration  into  the  most  graceful 

English. 

"  And  wear  thon  this,  —  she  solemn  said,  — 
And  bound  the  Holly  round  my  head : 
The  polished  leaves  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play ; 
And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away." 

The  poet's  happiest  and  richest  humor  may  be  seen  in 
the  "  Twa  Dogs."  Never  were  dogs  ("  who,"  as  some 
one  observes,  ''  since  the  days  of  JEsop  have  seemed  of  all 
brutes  most  entitled  to  the  privilege  "),  sitting  down  to 
moralize  on  human  affairs,  such  downright  dogs  !  Caesar, 
of  foreign  extraction,  whose  — 

"...  letter'd  braw  brass  collar 
Shewed  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar/* 

though  not  unmindful  of  his  high  degree,  is  still  full  of 
condescension  to  plebeian  Luath,  the  ploughman's  collie, 

whose  — 

"  Honest  sonsie,  baws'nt  face, 
Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place." 

In  their  long  discussion  of  "the  lords  o'  the  creation," 
neither  the  character  nor  the  different  conditions  of  the  dogs 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.       293 

is  ever  lost  sight  of ;  and  after  recounting  the  follies  of  the 
superior  brutes,  with  what  inimitable  self-complacency  — 

"  They  each  get  up  and  shake  their  lugs. 
Rejoiced  they  are  na  men,  but  dogs !  " 

Many  of  Burns's  brilliantly  comic  pieces  are  unfortunately 
marred  by  indelicate  and  reckless  touches,  as  in  the  "  Holj^ 
Fair,"  ''Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook,"  and  ''Holy  Willie's 
Prayer."  One  of  the  poet's  best  productions,  whimsically 
comic,  with  touches  of  the  terrific  and  the  tender,  is  his 
fanciful  "  Address  to  the  De'il."  It  will  be  remembered  that 
the  worthy  Covenanters  of  Scotland,  in  their  blind  unco' 
goodness,  had  felt  themselves  divinely  commissioned  to 
crop  the  lusty  fancy  of  the  peasantry  as  closely  as  they 
sheared  their  own  solemn  pates.  Of  brownies,  spunkies, 
bogles,  kelpies,  warlocks,  and  witches,  they  would  have 
none  ;  yet  one  awful  being  of  supernatural  mould  they  still 
suffered  to  go  at  large,  — 

"  Whiles  ranging  like  a  roaring  lion 
For  prey  a'  holes  and  corners  tryin'." 

The  Devil  they  considered  a  strictly  scriptural  apparition, 
and  eminently  salutary  to  the  souls  of  the  peasantrj^  as 
well  as  to  their  own. 

Burns  evidently  accepted  the  popular  conception  of  the 
person  and  attributes  of  Satan,  however  ludicrous  it  may 
have  seemed  to  his  superior  sense,  while  his  fancy  and 
imagination  purged  its  grossness,  and  touched  it  with 
poetic  beauty.  This  awful  and  harmful  personage,  stray- 
ing in  a  lonely  glen  beneath  the  glimmering  moon,  is  en- 
countered by  the  poet,  who,  nothing  daunted,  deems  it 
incumbent  upon  him  to  undertake  that  novel  dut}^,  — 
the  lecturing  of  Satan  for  his  sins !  This  in  all  the  droll 
familiarity  of  sly  humor  he  at  once  proceeds  to  do.    This 


••\ 


294       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

concluding  stanza  of  the  poem,  in  which  pity  for  the  fate 
of  Satan  is  blended  with  a  forlorn  hope  for  his  ultimate 
salvation,  is  inimitable. 

"  But  fare  ye  weel,  aald  Nickie-ben ! 

0  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' 
Ye  aiblins  might  —  I  dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a  stake : 

1  'm  wae  to  think  upo*  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake ! " 

Well  might  stout  John  Knox  have  arisen  wrathfully  from 
his  grave  to  cuff  the  ears  of  this  recreant  Presbyterian 
(as  he  is  said  to  have  done  those  of  his  beautiful,  contu- 
macious queen,  Mary  of  Scotland)  for  this  stretch  of 
''  effectual  calling." 

And  we  must  not  forget  those  verses  suggested  by  a 
certain  unique  decoration  on  a  *' Lady's  Bonnet"  (which 
shall  be  nameless).  What  a  world  of  sharpened,  sly 
philosophic  inspection  is  contained  in  this  last  often- 
quoted  stanza,  — 

"  O  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us ! 
It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us 

And  foolish  notion : 
What  airs  in  dress  and  gait  wad  lea'e  us  — 

And  ev'n  devotion ! " 

No  truer  poetry  than  Burns's  songs  and  ballads  exists  in 
any  countr3^  They  are  alwaj'S  the  expression  of  real  feel- 
ing and  passion,  never  labored  and  ingenious  performances, 
like  some  of  the  English  lyrics,  but  simple  and  natural  as  a 
shout  of  laughter  or  a  gush  of  tears,  the  poet* s  thought  at 
the  moment  finding  vent  in  musical  words. 

Moore  informs  us  that  he  became  a  writer  of  lyrics  that 
he  might  express  what  music  conveyed  to  himself.    Burns 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.      295 

is  said  to  have  had  no  technical  knowledge  of  music,  and 
the  pleasure  he  derived  from  his  native  airs  (some  of  which 
are  conjectured  to  have  been  preserved  in  the  wilds  and 
mountains  of  Scotland  with  the  native  race,  and  to  have 
descended  from  remote  ages)  was  mainly  the  result  of 
association. 

The  Scottish  peasantry  had  long  been  in  possession  of 
many  songs  composed  in  their  native  dialect,  and  sung  to 
these  ancient  airs.  These  songs,  though  rustic,  have  been 
commended  for  truth  of  character,  the  language  of  Nature, 
and  as  pictures  of  real  Arcadian  life.  *' Though  Knox 
and  his  disciples,"  as  has  been  said,  *'  might  influence  the 
Scottish  Parliament,  Vith  her  rural  muse  they  contended 
in  vain."  Clear  Highland  voices  still  woke  the  wild 
echoes,  and  the  plaintive  melodies  of  love,  sweet  as  the 
south  wind  sighing  amid  the  silver  birks,  went  singing 
softly  among  the  Lowland  homes.  "  These  airs  were  not 
all  plaintive ;  many  of  them  were  lively  and  humorous, 
suited  to  an  energetic  and  sequestered  people  in  their 
hours  of  mirth  and  festivity,  though  to  us  some  of  them 
might  appear  coarse  and  indelicate." 

Burns,  whose  soul  was  of  finest  harmony  and  easily 
stirred  into  lyric  melody,  has  by  his  compositions  in  this 
line  immortalized  some  of  his  native  airs.  Lyric  composi- 
tion was  peculiarly  suited  to  his  genius ;  and  in  his  songs 
his  language  and  imagery,  always  the  most  appropriate, 
musical,  and  graceful,  has  been  deemed  "  a  greater  marvel 
than  the  creations  of  Handel  or  Mozart."  Of  these  songs, 
universally  familiar,  ''Highland  Mary"  may  perhaps  be 
considered  most  excellent.  Though  not  of  the  smooth- 
est versification,  every  line  and  cadence  of  this  poem  is 
steeped  in  inimitable  pathos,  and  it  has  the  rare  merit  of 
being  addressed  from  the  heart  to  the  real  object  of  the 
poet's  tender  and  undying  regret.     The  song  "  To  Mary 


296  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


in  Heaven,"  as  a  simple,  natural  outburst  of- tenderness, 
has  never  been  excelled. 

The  songs  written  in  honor  of  bonnie  Jean  are  all  ad- 
mirable and  familiar.  Of  the  truest  lyric  ring  is  *'  Their 
Groves  of  Sweet  Myrtle.''  This  one  inimitable  stanza  one 
could  fancy  not  to  have  been  framed  of  mere  words,  but  of 
the  viewless  vibrations  of  harmonious  sound  :  — 

"  Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle,  let  foreign  lands  reckon, 

Where  bright  beaming  summers  exalt  the  perfume. 
Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green  breckan, 

Wi'  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow  broom : 
Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 

Where  the  blue-bell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly  unseen  : 
For  there,  lightly  tripping  amang  the  wild  flowers, 

A-listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean." 

Of  these  songs,  of  which  Burns  has  written  above  two 
hundred,  among  the  best  are  ''  John  Anderson,"  ''  Mary 
Morrison,"  "  Sweet  Afton,"  "  Bonnie  Doon,"  and  the 
far-famed  ''  Bannockburn,"  the  noblest  heroic  ode  in  the 
Scottish  language.  We  must  not  forget  ''  Bonnie  Leslie," 
*'  which  contains  in  one  verse,"  observes  Walter  Scott, 
"  the  essence  of  a  thousand  love-tales." 

**  But  to  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  forever ; 
For  nature  made  her  what  she  is 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither." 

And  there,  too,  is  "  Green  Grow  the  Rashes,  0,"  in 
which  Burns  has  thus  given  us  his  very  self,  — 

"  The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 
And  riches  still  will  fly  them,  O ; 
An'  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  0 1 

"  There 's  nought  but  care  on  every  han'. 
In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  O ; 
What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An'  't  were  na  for  the  lasses,  0 ! " 


SCOTTISH  POETRY  AND  ROBERT  BURNS.      297 

The  influence  of  such  a  poet  on  the  popular  mind  of  Scot- 
land cannot  be  estimated. 

*'The  tendency  of  some  things,"  observes  Craik,  "  both  in 
the  character  of  the  people  and  their  peculiar  institutions,  de- 
manded such  a  check  or  counteraction  as  was  supplied  by  this 
frank,  generous,  reckless  poetry,  springing  so  singularly  out  of 
the  iron-bound  Calvinistic  Presbyterianism  of  the  country,  like 
the  flowing  water  from  the  rock  in  Horeb.  In  any  country, 
among  any  people,  such  a  poet  would  help  to  sustain  whatever 
nobleness  of  character  belonged  to  them,  —  for  whatever  there 
may  be  to  disapprove  of  in  the  license  or  indecorum  of  some 
things  that  Burns  has  written,  there  is  at  least  nothing  mean- 
souled  in  his  poetry  any  more  than  there  was  in  the  man.  It  is 
never  for  a  moment  even  vulgar  or  low  in  expression  or  manner; 
it  is  wonderful  how  a  native  delicacy  of  taste  and  elevation  of 
&pirit  in  the  poet  has  sustained  him  here,  with  a  dialect  so  soiled 
by  illiterate  lips,  and  often  the  most  perilous  subject." 

In  his  songs  especially  has  the  genius  of  Burns  inter- 
woven itself  with  everj^  fibre  of  the  national  heart.  Among 
Scotland's  heathery  hills  and  flowery  wilds  his  memory  is 
still  green  as  the  slopes  — 

"  Where  summer  first  unfolds  her  robes.'* 

To  his  countrymen,  estranged  from  their  native  soil  and  toil- 
ing in  foreign  wilds,  or  traflficking  with  keen  ''  inspection  " 
in  alien  marts  of  trade,  his  ballads  come  singing  in  the  dear 
old  idiom,  welQome  as  a  breath  of  their  native  air,  and 
sweet  as  the  sound  of  "  burnies  wimpling  through  the 
glens  "  of  their  native  land.  Let  them  ever  bless  and  com- 
memorate the  day  that  gave  to  Scotland  Robert  Burns,  — 
one  who  though  not  immaculate  (the  sun  himself  hath 
shown  us  spots  upon  his  golden  disk)  was  true  bard 
and  every  inch  a  man. 


298  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WORDSWORTH  AND  THE   LAKE  SCHOOL. 


n 


FROM  the  Queen  Anne  poets  grew  up  that  taint  in 
our  diction  which  has  been  denounced  as  ''  tech- 
nically poetic  language,'*  —  sound  without  sense,  signify- 
ing nothing.  Although  the  poets  of  this  age  corrected  the 
indecency  of  the  vicious  school  introduced  at  the  Restora- 
tion, they  were  deficient  in  force  and  greatness  of  fancy, 
had  little  real  pathos  or  enthusiasm,  and  as  philosophers 
no  comprehensiveness,  depth,  or  originality. 

Cowper,  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  centurj-,  had 
begun  the  work  of  bringing  back  poetry  to  the  channels 
of  truth  and  Nature.  In  April,  1800,  he  ceased  from  his 
labors,  and  Wordsworth  undertook  to  complete  what  he 
had  only  begun.  Wordsworth  was  born  at  Cockermouth, 
in  Cumberland,  in  1770.  His  father  was  a  solicitor  in  the 
town,  and  the  poet  received  a  good  education.  In  early 
life  he  was  left  an  orphan.  Placed  at  a  grammar  school 
in  the  antique  village  of  Hawkshead,  he  there  spent  nine 
years  of  h;s  life  in  almost  primitive  seclusion,  lodging  in  a 
country  cottage,  and  "  haunting  the  tall  rock  and  sounding 
cataract "  until  his  whole  being  identified  itself  with  exter- 
nal Nature.  Here  the  inner  Wordsworth  was  formed, 
and  his  genius  here  took  its  peculiar  bent. 

In  1787  Wordsworth  was  entered  at  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge.  There  he  spent  three  years,  broken  by  visits 
to  Hawkshead,  and  by  a  bold,  and  almost  literally  pedes- 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE   SCHOOL.       299 

trian  tour  through  France,  Switzerland,  and  the  district  of 
the  Italian  lakes.  In  Januar}',  1791,  the  poet  took  his 
degree  at  Cambridge,  and  evidently  led  by  enthusiasm  for 
the  political  changes  then  at  work  in  France,  went  over 
to  that  country  and  remained  in  Orleans  and  Paris  about 
fifteen  months.  There  he  witnessed  the  culmination  of 
the  revolutionary  tumult  and  the  beginning  of  the  reign 
of  bloodshed  and  terror.  From  this  arena  of  crime  and 
horror,  so  sti-angely  contrasting  with  his  after-life  of  tran- 
quillity and  repose,  chance  carried  him  back  to  England, 
though  his  sympathies  are  said  still  to  have  been  with  the 
Republican  part}^ 

Wordsworth's  friends  had  intended  him  for  the  Church, 
but  he  showed  not  the  least  disposition  to  carry  out  their 
views,  living  now  in  a  desultory  wa}',  either  in  town  or 
country,  and  being  at  one  time  on  the  point  of  securing 
daily  bread  by  newspaper  drudgery.  Happily,  in  his 
twentj'-seventh  year  he  came  into  possession  of  nine  hun- 
dred pounds,  —  the  bequest  of  a  3'oung  friend  ' '  in  the  faith 
of  the  poet's  vocation  to  literary  achievement."  Endowed 
with  this  modest  sum,  he  considered  himself  independent, 
and  with  his  sister  Dorothy  settled  down  in  Somersetshire 
on  his  slender  income.  Though  Dorothy  Wordsworth  did 
not  herself  "  build  the  lofty  rhyme,"  it  is  said  to  have  been 
the  work  of  her  life  to  bring  to  her  idolized  brother  the 
rarest  "  building  materials  "  for  his  verse  ;  and  he  has  told 
us  that  her  mind,  next  to  Coleridge's,  was  most  operative 
on  his  own. 

Here  Wordsworth  first  met  Coleridge,  and  it  was  an 
epoch  in  his  life.  Coleridge's  highest  poetic  period  was 
this  of  his  daily  intercourse  with  the  sister  and  brother. 
One  sees  in  imagination  these  three  friends  making  their 
frugal  pedestrian  tours  about  the  country,  or  taking  modest 
journeys  in  cosey  old  wagons  drawn  by  circumspect  elderly 
nags,  —  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  on  their  very  highest 


800       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND   POETS. 

stilts,  talking  poetry  together,  and  utterly  oblivious  of 
horse,  wagon,  and  *' refreshment  for  man  and  beast;" 
while  Doroth}',  like  any  common  mortal,  attends  to  such 
prosaic  trivialities  as  keeping  the  road,  feeding  the  horse, 
and  procuring  sublunar}^  nourishment  for  two  hungry  poets.  ■ 

In  1798  they  all  passed  the  winter  in  Germany.  Cole- 
ridge  plunged  into  metaphysics,  and  staj-ed  on,  while 
Wordsworth  and  his  sister  returned  to  England,  and  set- 
tled snugly  down  in  the  cottage  at  Grasmere.  After  his 
own  profound  and  quiet  fashion  Wordsworth  is  said  ten- 
derly to  have  loved  his  cousin,  whom  he  married  in  1802.  m 
This  exquisite  sonnet  on  her  portrait,  painted  many  long  "' 
years  after  their  honeymoon,  testifies  to  the  depth  of  his 
affection  for  her.  Petrarch  himself  never  flung  a  fairer 
posy  at  Laura's  feet. 

"  Though  I  beheld  at  first  with  blank  surprise 
This  work,  I  now  have  gazed  on  it  so  long, 
I  see  its  truth  with  unreluctant  eyes ; 
O  my  beloved !  I  have  done  thee  wrong, 
Conscious  of  blessedness,  but  whence  it  springs 
Ever  too  heedless,  as  I  now  perceive. 
Morn  into  noon  did  pass,  noon  into  eve, 
And  the  old  day  was  welcome  as  the  young, 
As  welcome  and  as  beautiful,  —  in  sooth 
More  beautiful,  as  being  a  thing  more  holy  ; 
Thanks  to  thy  virtues,  to  the  eternal  youth 
Of  all  thy  goodness,  never  melancholy ; 
To  thy  large  heart  and  humble  mind,  that  cast 
Into  one  vision,  future,  present,  past  I " 

Two  years  after  their  marriage  Wordsworth  celebrated 
his  Mary  in  those  exquisite  verses  entitled  "  She  was  a 
Phantom  of  Delight,"  in  which  he  has  given  us  that  apt 
couplet,  — 

"  A  creature  not  too  bright  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food." 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE  SCHOOL.       301 

In  1803  "Wordsworth  and  his  sister  made  a  tour  in  Scot- 
land, of  which  we  have  a  pleasing  record.  There  tliey 
were  honored  guests  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  formed  a 
lifelong  acquaintance  with  him. 

In  1839  the  poet  received  an  honorary  degree  at  Oxford, 
which  was  given  in  the  theatre  "  with  great  acclamation." 
On  the  death  of  Southey,  in  1843,  he  was  made  poet  lau- 
reate. Once  only  did  he  sing  in  discharge  of  his  office, 
and  in  1850  ends  the  story  of  his  life.  A  poet  crowned, 
full  of  years,  and  ripe  in  goodness,  he  was  gathered 
home  to  God.  His  body  rests  in  the  quiet  churchyard 
at  Grasmere. 

In  1798  Wordsworth  settled  among  his  beloved  lakes,  in 
the  north  of  England,  first  at  Grasmere  and  afterward  at 
Rydal  Mount.  Southey's  subsequent  retirement  to  the 
same  beautiful  country,  and  Coleridge's  visits  to  his  brother 
poets,  originated  the  not  very  intelligible  designation  of 
the  Lake  School  of  poetry.  Jeffrey,  I  think,  first  mali- 
ciously st3"led  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Southej^  "  that 
school  of  whining  and  hj'pochondriacal  poets  that  haunt 
the  Lakes." 

The  peculiarities  which  are  conceived  to  constitute  what 
is  called  the  Lake  manner  first  appeared  in  the  "  Lyrical 
Ballads,"  the  first  volume  of  which  was  published  by  Words- 
worth in  1798.  The  second  volume,  together  with  the  "An- 
cient Manner  "  of  Coleridge,  was  published  in  1800.  Some 
of  the  ballads  were  also  from  the  pen  of  Coleridge,  but  the 
greater  part  by  Wordsworth.  The  ballads  were  designed 
by  him  as  an  experiment  how  far  a  simpler  kind  of  poetry 
than  that  in  use  would  afford  permanent  interest  to  readers. 

In  the  Preface  he  describes  his  object  to  be  that  of 
"  fitting  to  metrical  arrangement  a  selection  of  the  real 
language  of  men  in  a  state  of  vivid  sensation."  This 
theory  of  poetry,  which  Wordsworth  appears  to  have  set 


302       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

out  with,  is  happily  most  thoroughly  contradicted  and  re- 
futed by  the  greater  part  of  his  own  poetry.  It  maintains 
that  passion  or  strong  feeling,  even  in  the  rudest  natures, 
has  always  something  of  poetry  in  it,  —  a  truism  which 
nobody  denies ;  still,  it  is  not  true  that  the  real  language 
of  men,  however  much  excited,  is  usuallj-,  to  any  consider- 
able extent,  poetry.  If  emotion  or  excitement  alone  would 
produce  that  idealization  in  which  poetry  consists,  then  we 
might  have  poetry  without  poets,  instead  of  poets  without 
poetry,  as  Heaven  knows  we  too  often  have.  "  Poetr}',*' 
it  has  been  well  observed,  "  belongs  not  to  the  realm  of 
Nature,  but  to  the  realm  of  art ;  and  upon  whatever  prin- 
ciple or  system  of  operation  he  may  proceed,  it  is  the  poet 
that  makes  the  poetr}',  and  without  him  it  cannot  have 
birth  or  being.  He  is  the  bee,  without  whom  there  can  be 
no  hone}'^ ;  the  artist,  or  true  creator,  from  whom  the  thing 
produced,  whatever  be  its  material,  takes  shape  and  beauty 
and  a  living  soul." 

The  attempt  of  Wordsworth  to  destroy  altogether  the 
iBne  fabric  of  poetic  diction  which  the  tuneful  tribe  had 
for  generations  been  rearing,  and  to  substitute  a  style  of 
composition  disfigured  by  colloquial  plainness  ;  to  effect  a 
transition  from  the  refined  and  sentimental  school  of  verse 
to  such  themes  as  the  '*  Idiot  Bo}^,"  —  was  too  violent  to 
escape  ridicule  ;  and  down  upon  his  devoted  head  came  the 
hostility  of  reviews  and  the  ridicule  of  satirists.  At  once, 
he  became  notorious  as  one  — 

**  Who  both  by  precept  and  example  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose." 

Fortunatel}^  with  Wordsworth,  as  with  many  another, 
theorj^  and  practice  did  not  go  hand  in  hand.  This  theory 
of  his  was,  after  all,  but  the  indignant  protest  of  an  earn- 
est, truthful  soul  against  the  then  prevalent  vices  of  style 


I 
I 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE   SCHOOL.       303 

characterizing  the  artificial  schooL  An  idiosyncratic  ten- 
denc}"  to  exaggerate  the  importance  of  trivial  things,  a 
sort  of  mawkishness  in  imagery  and  sentiment,  gives  those 
ludicrous  touches  to  some  of  his  verses  which  almost  over- 
power the  simple,  natural  beauty  and  the  spirit  of  tender 
humanity  by  which  they  are  characterized. 

Some  one  has  remarked,  and  justly,  that  *'  had  Words- 
worth been  more  capable  of  separating  by  discernment  his 
bad  from  his  good,  there  would,  it  is  hkelj^  enough,  have 
been  far  less  of  the  had ;  but  the  good  perhaps  would  have 
been  far  less  good^  Having  no  humor  or  comedy  of  any 
kind  in  him,  it  is  often  impossible  to  tell  whether  he  means 
to  be  comic  or  tender,  serious  or  ludicrous,  or  whether  his 
choice  of  subjects  and  illustrations  ma}'  be  regarded  as 
genuine  simplicity  or  silliness  and  affectation. 

In  the  "  Idiot  Boy  "  we  find  such  stanzas  as  this  :  — 

"  And  Susan  *s  growing  worse  and  worse, 
And  Betty 's  in  a  sad  quandary ; 
And  then  there 's  nobody  to  say 
If  she  may  go,  or  she  must  stay ! 
She 's  in  a  sad  quandary." 

We  too  are  ''  in  a  sad  quandarj'."  We  cannot  tell  whether 
such  stuff  as  this,  given  under  the  name  of  poetr}^  is  the 
production  of  a  man  of  genius,  or  of  the  identical  "  boj'  " 
whose  fortunes  it  relates !  However  it  may  be,  we  are 
fain  to  exclaim,  *'  Prithee,  good  Bett}' ,  wait  no  longer  in 
th}'  '  quandary ; '  go,  bring  th}'  Johnny  home,  and  that 
directly ;  and  (consummation  most  devoutlj'  to  be  wished) 
bring  us  to  the  story's  end." 

In  his  famous  *' Rejected  Addresses"  the  witty  James 
Smith  felicitously  parodies  Wordsworth's  bald,  colloquial 
stj'le  and  frequent  infehcity  of  theme.  The  parody  is 
spoken  in  the  character  of  Nancy  Lake,  and  is  entitled 


804       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  The  Baby's  Debut."      This  is  the   opening  stanza  of 
the  parod^^ :  — 

**  My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 
And  I  was  eight  on  New  Year's  Day ; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson's  shop 
Papa  (he  's  my  papa  and  Jack's) 
Bought  me,  last  week,  a  doll  of  wax, 
And  brother  Jack  a  top." 

Fortunately,  it  is  out  of  the  power  of  the  most  perverse 
theory  to  spoil  the  true  poet ;  and  in  defiance  of  his  crotchets, 
Wordsworth  must  ever  charm  and  elevate  mankind.  The 
spirit  of  truth  and  poetry  has  redeemed  from  oblivion  and 
hallowed  and  ennobled  such  homely  themes  as  Harry  Gill 
and  the  Wagoner,  and  even  Peter  Bell  and  his  ass  will 
go  jogging  down  the  centuries  with  the  Tam  O'  Shanters, 
the  John  Gilpins,  and  other  famous  equestrian  heroes.  Of 
the  poems  expressing  Wordsworth's  most  peculiar  manner 
—  that  which  used  to  be  especially  understood  as  the  style 
of  the  Lake  School  —  the  *'  Fountain  *'  is  perhaps  the  best 
example. 

In  manj^  of  Wordsworth's  homeliest  and  most  hacknej-ed 
ballads  we  find  the  sweetest  and  tenderest  humanity,  as  in 
"  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,"  or  the  most  profound  philo- 
sophical touches,  as  in  ''  We  are  Seven."  But  much,  per- 
haps we  might  say  the  greater  part,  of  his  poetry,  is  in  a 
style  and  manner  quite  different  from  these.  His  theory 
is  as  much  confuted  by  his  own  poetry  as  it  is  b}'  the  uni- 
versal past  experience  of  mankind.  Take,  for  example, 
his  "  Lonely  Leech  Gatherer,"  his  "  Ruth,"  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  lines,  his  '*  Tintern  Abbey,"  his  "  Feast 
of  Brougham,"  the  *'  Water  Lily,"  the  greater  part  of  the 
"  Excursion,"  most  of  the  sonnets,  his  great  *'  Ode  on  the 
Intimations  of  Immortality  in  Early  Childhood,"  many  of 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE  SCHOOL.       305 

his  shorter  lyrical  pieces,  and  his  "  Laodamia  "  (the  last 
without  the  exception  of  a  single  line)  ;  these  are  as  unex- 
ceptionable in  diction  as  the^^  are  deep  and  true  in  feel- 
ing, judged  according  to  existing  rules  or  principles  of 
art.  An  artist  should  be  judged  by  his  best;  for  then,  if 
ever,  he  touches  with  finger-tips  the  endless  endeavor  of 
his  soul.  Many  of  Wordsworth's  best  verses,  embodying 
the  philosophy  and  sentiment  of  our  common  humanity, 
have  a  completeness  and  impressiveness,  as  of  texts, 
mottoes,  and  proverbs;  and  we  may  safely  aferm  that 
no  cotemporary  poet  has  so  well  attained  that  undying 
beauty  of  expression,  that  harmony  between  thought  and 
word,  which  is  the  condition  of  immortal  verse.  "  Poetrj'," 
says  a  reviewer,  **  like  science,  has  its  final  precision; 
there  are  pieces  of  poetic  language  which,  try  as  men  will, 
they  will  simply  have  to  recur  to,  and  confess  that  it  has 
been  done  before."  As  an  example  of  that  which,  in 
Wordsworth's  way  of  putting  it,  has  attained  the  one 
form  which  of  all  others  trul}^  belongs  to  it,  many  of  his 
shorter  pieces  might  be  quoted.  Of  this  kind  of  writing 
this  little  poem  is  a  marked  example  :  — 

**  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man  ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 

These  stanzas  are  equally  characteristic :  — 

**  A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ; 
I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 
The  touch  of  earthly  years. 
20 


306  ENGLISH  POETKY  AND  POETS. 

**  No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force ; 
She  neither  hears  nor  sees, 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 
With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees." 

.  In  the  poem  beginning  ''  Three  years  she  grew  in  sun 
and  shower,"  the  peculiar  philosophy  of  Wordsworth  is 
exquisitely  embodied.  In  execution  and  sentiment  it  is 
one  of  his  most  perfect  productions.  These  two  stanzas 
are  almost  perfect :  — 

"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 
Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty,  born  of  murmuring  sound 
Shall  pass  into  her  face." 

Wordsworth,  we  cannot  deny,  wrote  over-much,  and 
sometimes  measured  the  result  of  his  labor  by  quantity 
rather  than  quality.  The  art  of  condensation  he  rarely 
practised ;  consequent!}^,  in  reading  many  of  his  poems 
one  has  daintily  to  pick  out  the  good  bits.  Sometimes  we 
find  a  complete  poem  good  throughout,  and  good  as  a 
whole.  Such  a  poem  is  "Laodamia,"  in  which  Words- 
worth divests  himself  of  all  local  and  personal  associa- 
tions and  throws  himself  back  upon  antiquit}"  in  intensest 
sympathy  with  the  persons  of  the  historic  and  heroic  ages 
of  Greece.  He  says  of  this  poem :  *'  I  wrote  it  with  the 
hope  of  giving  it  a  loftier  tone  than,  so  far  as  I  know,  has 
been  given  to  it  by  any  of  the  ancients  who  have  treated 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE  SCHOOL.      307 

of  it."  A  more  delicate  and  graceful  homily  on  the  wis- 
dom of  subduing  the  sensual  to  the  spiritual  than  Words- 
worth's version  of  this  example  derived  from  the  ante- 
Homeric  age,  cannot  be  found  in  our  language ;  and  the 
versification  is  in  absolute  harmony  with  the  subject.  Thus 
runs  the  story :  The  Delphic  oracle  has  foretold  that  the 
first  Greek  who  touches  the  Trojan  strand  shall  die.  Pro- 
tesilaus,  with  the  fleet,  sets  sail  from  Aulis ;  upon  the 
silent  sea  he  revolves  in  his  mind  the  oracle,  and  nobl}' 
determines  — 

"  If  no  worthier  lead  the  way, 
That  of  a  thousand  vessels,  his  shall  be 
The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand,  ' 

His  the  first  blood  to  tinge  the  Trojan  sand." 

On  Laodimia,  his  queen,  too,  fondly  does  his  memory 
hang.  He  recalls  the  joys  they  shared  in  mortal  life, 
the  paths  which  together  they  have  trod,  their  fountains 
and  their  flowers ;  and  bitter  is  the  pang  when  he  thinks 
of  her  loss.     Yet  thus  bravely  he  resolves  and  acts,  — 

"  And  shall  suspense  permit  the  foe  to  cry, 
*  Behold,  they  tremble !     Haughty  their  array, 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die '  ? 


And  forth  he  leaps  upon  the  sandy  plain, 
A  self-devoted  chief  bv  Hector  slain." 


Her  hero  dead,  Laodamia  will  not  be  comforted.  She 
sends  her  wail  through  the  "veiled  empires  of  eternity." 
In  the  lonely  night,  "  'mid  shades  forlorn,"  she  vainly  im- 
plores him  "  from  the  infernal  gods."  Still,  undaunted  by 
failure,  with  sacrifice  and  vows  she  now  further  entreats 
from  great  Jove  her  lord's  return. 


308       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  O  terror !     What  hath  she  perceived  ?     O  joy ! 
What  doth  she  look  on  ?     Whom  doth  she  behold  ? 
Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  ? 
It  is  —  if  sense  deceive  her  not  —  't  is  he ! 
And  a  god  leads  him,  winged  Mercury." 

Touching  her  with  his  wand,  mild  Hermes  calms  all  fear, 
and  thus  addresses  her,  — 

"  * .  .  .  Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy  prayer, 
Laodimia !  that  at  Jove's  command 
Thy  husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air  : 
He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours'  space ; 
Accept  the  gift ;  behold  him  face  to  face ! ' " 

Protesilaus,  cold  and  serene,  eludes  her  impassioned 
clasp;  only  a  phantom  stands  before  her.  In  his  high 
sphere  is  her  love  to  him  a  thing  of  naught?  Is  there 
indeed  a  bridgeless  gulf  between  them  set?  With  sink- 
ing heart  she  thus  entreats  the  shade  of  her  beloved,  — 

" '  Confirm,  I  pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice  : 
This  is  our  palace  ;  yonder  is  thy  throne  ; 
Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon,  and  blest  a  sad  abode ! '  '* 

Protesilaus  replies,  — 

*'  *  Great  Jove,  Laodamia,  doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect.     Spectre  though  I  be, 
I  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee,  or  deceive ; 
But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 
And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain ; 
For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain.'  " 

Thus  reassured,  Laodamia  again  approaches  this  im- 
material being  with  mortal  love  and  hope:  — 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE   SCHOOL.       309 

"  *  Supreme  of  heroes,  bravest,  noblest,  best ! 
Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more, 
Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  depressed 
By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore 
Thou  found'st  —  and  I  forgive  thee  —  here  thou  art,  — 
A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

" '  But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 
Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave ; 
And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 
That  thou  should'st  cheat  the  malice  of  the  grave; 
Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 
As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 

"  *  No  spectre  greets  me,  —  no  vain  shadow  this ; 
Come,  blooming  hero,  place  thee  by  my  side ! 
Give,  oh  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day,  a  second  time  thy  bride ! ' " 

On  this  impracticable  "  love  and  longing"  — 

"  Jove  frowned  in  heaven ;    the  conscious  Parcse  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue." 

And    thus    changed,   Protesilaus    admonishes    his    rash 
queen,  — 

"  *  This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past : 
Know  virtue  were  not  virtue  if  the  joys 
Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast, 
As  surely,  as  they  vanish.     Earth  destroys 
These  raptures  duly  —  Erebus  disdains  : 
Calm  pleasures  there  abide,  —  majestic  pains. 

**  *  Be  taught,  O  faithful  consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion  :  for  the  gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul ; 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 
Thy  transports  moderate ;  and  meekly  mourn 
When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn.'  " 

Again  Laodamia  pleads  with  impassioned  importunit}^ : 


310       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

**  *  And  wherefore  ?     Did  not  Hercules  by  force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  monster  of  the  tomb 
Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse, 
Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  1 
Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years, 
And  JEson  stood  a  youth,  'mid  youthful  peers. 

**  *  The  gods  to  us  are  merciful,  —  and  they 
Still  farther  may  relent ;  for  mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 
Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 
And  though  his  favorite  seat  be  feeble  woman's  breast. 

"  '  But  if  thou  goest,  I  follow ' —  *  Peace ! '  he  said. 
She  looked  upon  him,  and  was  calmed  and  cheered. 
The  ghastly  color  from  his  lips  had  fled  ; 
In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  appeared 
Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 
Brought  from  a  pensive,  though  a  happy  place. 

**  He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 
No  fears  to  beat  away,  no  strife  to  heal. 
The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure." 

These  are  his  parting  words,  — 

"  *  I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 
Our  blest  reunion  in  the  shades  below. 
The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathized ; 
Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solenmized. 

"  *  Learn  by  a  mortal  yearning  to  ascend  — 
Seeking  a  higher  object.     Love  was  given. 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end ; 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven, 
That  self  might  be  annulled,  her  bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to  love  ! ' 

"  Aloud  she  shrieked  !  for  Hermes  reappears ! 
Round  the  dear  shade  she  would  have  clung ;  't  is  vain ; 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE   SCHOOL.      311 

The  hours  are  past,  —  too  brief  had  they  been  years ; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain. 

Swift  towards  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day. 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way. 

And  on  the  palace  floor  a  lifeless  corse  she  lay. 

"  Ah,  judge  her  gently  who  so  deeply  loved ! 
Her,  who  in  reason's  spite,  yet  without  crime. 
Was  in  a  trance  of  passion  thus  removed ; 
Delivered  from  the  galling  yoke  of  time, 
And  these  frail  elements,  —  to  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers." 

To  accommodate  the  narrative  to  the  account  given  by 
Virgil,  who  places  the  shade  of  Laodamia  in  a  mournful 
region,  among  unhappy  lovers,  Wordsworth  thus  remod- 
elled this  final  stanza,  — 

"  She  who,  though  warned,  exhorted,  and  reproved. 
Thus  died,  from  passion  desperate  to  a  crime, 
By  the  just  gods,  whom  no  weak  pity  moved. 
Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time 
Apart  from  happy  ghosts,  who  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  in  unfading  bowers." 

The  first  conclusion  is,  I  think,  the  most  satisfactory. 
The  justice  of  the  gods  is  far  less  admirable  than  their 
compassion ;  and  it  would  hardlj'  have  been  consistent 
in  these  mighty  beings,  who  in  their  own  persons,  ac- 
cording to  the  myths,  have  given  mankind  many  exam- 
ples of  intemperate  passion,  to  doom  poor  Laodamia  to 
a  place  of  punishment  for  excess  of  affection. 

"  For  ages,"  so  runs  the  tale,  "  a  knot  of  spiry  trees 
grew  upon  the  tomb  of  Protesilaus ;  and  in  sj'mpathy 
with  the  suffering  Laodamia,  whenever  from  their  tall 
summits  they  gained  a  view  of  Ihum,  they  instantly  with- 
ered at  the  top,"  —  thus  maintaining  a  constant  under- 


312       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

growth  of  change  and  blight.  In  *'  Laodamia,"  Words- 
worth, repudiating  his  own  theor}^  has  ventured  upon  the 
loftiest  theme.  It  is  a  purely  and  richly  classic  poem. 
Here,  in  calm,  sustained  elevation  of  thought  and  appro- 
priate imagery,  he  may  compete  with  Milton.  The  address 
of  Protesilaus  to  Laodamia  equals  the  subhme  strains  of 
the  elder  bard.  In  his  *' Feast  of  Brougham  Castle" 
and  his  "  Egyptian  Maid,  or.  The  Romarfce  of  the  Water 
Lily,"  Wordsworth  has  shown  his  master}^  over  the  most 
popular  of  all  our  poetic  styles,  that  of  the  old  romance 
in  its  highest  and  most  refined  forms.  The  "Eg3'ptian 
Maid"  is  his  greatest  poem  of  this  kind. 

In  the  sonnet  Wordsworth  has  perhaps  best  displa3'ed 
his  elevation  and  sustained  power.  The  necessity  for 
brief  and  rapid  thought  here  represses  his  tendency  to 
prolixity  and  diffuseness ;  and  in  this  form  of  poetic  com- 
position he  has  been  surpassed  by  Milton  alone.  His  son- 
nets are  characterized  by  a  chaste  and  noble  simplicit}^, 
a  winning  sweetness,  or  simple  grandeur.  One  of  the 
finest  and  most  characteristic  is  this,  entitled  *'  The  World 
is  Too  Much  with  us  "  :  — 


*'  The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours. 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon. 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers,  — 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I  'd  rather  be 
A  pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE  SCHOOL.       313 

*' The  Excursion"  —  a  philosophical  poem  in  blank 
verse  —  contains  passages  of  sentiment,  description,  and 
pure  eloquence  not  excelled  by  any  poet  of  Wordsworth's 
time.  The  narrative  part  of  the  poem  is  a  framework 
for  a  series  of  pictures  of  mountain  scenery,  and  philo- 
sophical dissertations,  tending  to  show  how  the  external 
world  is  adapted  to  the  mind  of  man,  and  good  educed 
out  of  evil  and  suffering. 

"  The  Excursion  "  is  not  without  that  incongruity  which 
characterizes  many  of  Wordsworth's  poems.  Thus,  the 
Wanderer  —  a  poor  Scotch  pedlar  —  is  a  profound  moral- 
ist and  dialectician,  and  discourses  with  clerk-like  fluency, 

"  Of  truth  and  grandeur,  beauty,  love,  and  hope." 

Prolixity  is  the  great  and  distinguishing  fault  of  the  poem. 
He  who  would  traverse  the  mountains  in  company  with 
the  poet  and  the  Wanderer,  should  have  a  long  day  before 
him  at  the  start,  plenty  of  patience,  and  an  unfaiUng 
supply  of  wide-awakeness  ;  and  even  then  —  as  De  Quin- 
cey  humorously  suggests  —  he  will  be  fain  to  sa}"  to  the 
long-winded  Wanderer,  "Now,  dear  old  soul,  if  you  could 
cut  it  short  a  little  !  "  But  the  "  dear  old  soul "  must  say 
his  say  to  the  bitter  end.  *'  Cut  it  short?  "  Why,  the  te- 
diousness  of  the  poem  is  evidently  conceived  b}"  the  poet 
as  a  part  of  its  relish !  It  has  also  that  inequality  of 
diction  "  which,"  as  Craik  happily  observes,  ''  makes 
Wordsworth's  productions  a  brittle  mixture  of  poetical  and 
prosaic  forms,  like  the  image  of  iron  and  cla}^  in  Nebu- 
chadnezzar's dream."  One  cannot  deny  too  that  the 
Wanderer  gives  us  a  great  deal  of  plain  prose  in  the  guise 
of  verse ;  yet  with  all  its  faults  the  *'  Excursion  "  is  a 
noble  poem,  conceived  and  executed  in  a  lofty  st3'le  of 
moral  observation,  and  peculiarly  consecrated  by  a  spirit 
of  Christian  benevolence  and  enlightened  humanit}^ 


314  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

The  '^Prelude"  is  an  unfinished  poem  on  the  growth  of  the 
author's  own  mind.  It  is  a  posthumous  poem,  though  pro- 
jected in  his  twenty-ninth  year.  The  existence  of  this 
work  in  manuscript,  its  lofty  pretension  and  great  mag- 
nitude, had  long  been  known  to  the  public.  Jeffrey  is 
said  to  have  made  himself  very  merry  in  computing  the 
probable  dimension  of  the  poem.  De  Quincey  had  read  it 
and  praised  it.  All  that  is  publishable  has  now  been  pub- 
lished ;  and  though  so  vast,  it  is  only  a  fragment.  It  is 
a  faithful  record  of  the  individual  experience  of  a  man  of 
genius,  and  may  be  regarded  at  once  as  his  earliest  pro- 
duction and  his  latest  legacy  to  the  world.  The  long 
poem  is  not  always  the  great  poem.  What  is  richest  and 
best  in  Wordsworth  may  not,  I  think,  be  found  either  in 
the  "  Excursion,"  or  in  the  ' '  Prelude."  Coleridge  thus  de- 
fines a  true  poem :  *'  It  should  give  us  as  much  pleasure 
as  possible  in  a  short  space."  Undoubtedly  "  Tintern 
Abbey"  and  the  ''Ode  on  Immortality"  will  live  long 
after  the  "  Excursion  "  is  forgotten,  and  the  ''Prelude" 
"dead  as  Caesar."  Only  "  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy/or- 
everl"  In  his  magnificent  "Ode  on  the  Intimations 
of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood" 
Wordsworth  is  seen  at  his  very  best. 

"  Though  inland  far  we  be 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither,"  — 

and  can  respond  to  every  line  of  this  exquisite  poem. 

To  sum  up  this  review  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  it  may 
be  said  that  his  characteristic  power  is  that  of  raising  the 
smallest  things  in  Nature  into  sublimit}-,  and  immortalizing 
them  by  the  force  of  sentiment,  as  he  has  done  with  that 
primrose  by  the  river's  brim.  "His  passion  for  Nature," 
says  De  Quincey,  "  was  a  necessity,  like  that  of  the  mul- 


WORDSWORTH  AND   THE  LAKE  SCHOOL.      315 

berry  leaf  to  the  silkworm.  From  the  truth  of  his  love 
his  knowledge  grew ;  whilst  most  others,  being  merely 
hypocrites  in  their  love,  have  turned  out  mere  charlatans 
in  their  knowledge.  If  we  accept  Dampier,  and  some  few 
professional  naturalists,  he  first,  and  he  last,  has  looked  at 
Nature  with  an  eye  that  will  neither  be  dazzled  from  with- 
out nor  cheated  by  preconceptions  from  within.  He,  first 
of  all,  has  given  the  true  key-note  of  the  sentiment  be- 
longing to  her  grand  pageantry."  Describing  the  shift- 
ing pomp  of  an  evening  sky-scene,  it  is,  moralizes  the 

poet,  — 

"  Meek  Nature's  evening  comment  on  the  shows. 


.  .  ,  the  fuming  vanities  of  Earth ! " 

Critics  allow  Wordsworth  little  fanc}-,  no  wit,  little  or 
no  humor  ;  an  austere  purity  of  language,  both  grammati- 
ca%  and  logically ;  a  perfect  harmony  between  word  and 
thought;  originalit}^  and  sinewy  strength  of  diction,  pe- 
culiarly exhibited  in  single  lines  and  paragraphs ;  per- 
fect fidelity  to  Nature  in  his  images  anjd  descriptions ; 
meditative  but  not  moving  pathos,  in  the  contemplation 
of  his  own  and  man's  nature ;  great  occasional  elegance, 
combined  with  peculiar  and  frequent  rusticity  and  bald- 
ness of  allusion ;  8t3'le  natural  and  severe ;  versification 
sonorous  and  expressive ;  imagination  in  the  highest  and 
strictest  sense  of  the  word. 

"Let  me,"  said  Wordsworth,  "  be  a  teacher,  or  noth- 
ing." A  teacher  he  was,  and  (with  the  exceptions  of 
Milton  and  Cowper)  the  intensest  and  most  pure-minded, 
as  he  was  the  most  unique,  of  our  English  poets,  —  Nature's 
great  High-Priest  who  has  entered  into  her  Holy  of  Holies 
as  no  preceding  poet  had  ever  done ;  an  undaunted  liter- 
ary reformer,  who  under  general  unpopularity,  and  a  weight 
of  opprobrium  that  would  have  crushed  a  weaker  man, 


316  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

worked  steadily  on  in  his  mountain  retirement,  giving  voice 
to  whatever  things  ' '  the  Spirit  said  unto  him  write  !  "  One 
who  met  Wordsworth  at  Rydal  Mount  in  the  later  years 
of  his  life  thus  concisely  described  to  me  his  appearance : 
said  my  friend,  *'  He  was  a  sacred-looking  man."  Death, 
stiller  and  sterner  than  poetry,  has  now  folded  him  into 
his  embrace,  beyond  — 

"...  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world." 

Behind  him  he  has  left  a  rich  epitaph  in  the  memory  of 
his  private  virtues.  It  has,  I  know,  been  said  of  him 
"that  he  stood  aside  from  his  time,  hearing  the  tumult 
afar  off; "  and  some  one  inclined  to  contemn  the  mild  pre- 
cepts of  this  rural  moralist,  who  lifted  up  his  life  as  a  dis- 
tant beacon-fire  among  his  valleys,  "  piping  a  simple  song 
to  thinking  hearts,"  rather  than  listening  in  crowded  cities 
to  the  wild  heavings  of  the  great  heart  of  humanity,  has 
derisively  compared  his  morality  to  the  achievements  of 
that  celebrated  French  sea-captain,  — 

"  Who  fled  full  soon 

On  the  first  of  June, 
But  bade  the  rest  keep  fighting.'* 

Yet  Wordsworth  was  not  a  man  of  timid  virtue,  neither 
had  his  experience  lain  altogether  out  of  the  road  of  temp- 
tation. A  3'oung  man  in  Paris  during  the  heat  of  the  first 
Revolution  must  have  seen  something  of  the  thick  of 
the  struggle  and  conflict  of  existence.  There  are  poets 
of  life  and  action  who  must  necessarily  come  near  enough 
to  the  sins,  sufferings,  and  follies  of  their  brother  men  to 
get  through  experience  that  ''  fellow-feeling  that  makes 
us  wondrous  kind"  to  the  prevailing  infirmities  of  our 
race.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  poets  of  retirement 
and  reflection.     Wordsworth,  among  tlie  vales  of  Gras- 


1 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE  SCHOOL.       317 

mere,  on  the  summit  of  Rydal  Mount,  or  plunging  into 
tiie  thick  woods  at  noonday,  kept  "  perpetual  hone3'moon 
with  Nature."  In  this  love,  that  through  life  haunted  him 
like  a  passion,  lies  the  source  of  his  strength.  It  left  him 
untouched  by  the  artificial  and  mechanical  tastes  of  his 
age,  colored  his  thoughts,  gave  originality  to  his  concep- 
tions, and  hallowed  the  whole  man  with  — 

"  The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 

Honored  be  the  poet  who  brought  poetry  back  to  her 
own  sweet  self;  who  turned  the  public  taste  from  pom- 
pous inanity  to  truth  and  simplicity,  standing  ever  first 
and  foremost  by  the  forlorn  hope,  a  sturdy  and  steadfast 
champion  of  truth  and  Nature !  The  battle  well  done, 
serenely  upon  Rydal  Mount  the  victor  wore  his  laureate 
crown  ;  and  evermore  — 

"  It  shall  be  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  who  uttered  nothing  base." 

"  Though  dead,  he  yet  speaketh."     Hear  him :  — 

"...  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her." 


318  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY. 

A  POET  of  quite  another  calibre  was  Samuel  Ta3'lor 
Coleridge,  —  the  friend  and  .  associate  of  Words- 
worth, and  his  most  enthusiastic  admirer.  The  logician, 
metaphysician,  critic,  and  rich,  imaginative  poet  were  in 
this  remarkable  man  most  singularly  united. 

Coleridge  was  a  native  of  Devonshire,  and  born  in  1772, 
at  Otterj^-St.-Mar}',  of  which  parish  his  father  was  vicar. 
The  principal  part  of  the  poet's  education  was  received 
at  Christ's  Hospital,  —  a  school  original  intended  by 
Edward  VI.  as  a  foundation  for  poor  orphan  children 
born  in  London,  but  which  afterward  extended  its  bene- 
fits to  the  middle  classes  as  well  as  the  lower,  and 
where  some  of  the  first  writers  and  scholars  of  England 
have  been  educated.  Here  he  had  Charles  Lamb  for  a 
school-fellow,  and  formed  for  him  that  friendship  which 
death  alone  was  permanently  to  interrupt. 

Coleridge  has  described  himself  as  being  from  eight  to 
fourteen  "  a  playless  da3'-dreamer."  The  child  is  father 
of  the  man,  and  such  a  dreamer  he  was  to  the  end  of  his 
life.  A  stranger  whom  he  had  accidentalh'  met  one  day, 
on  the  streets  of  London,  was  struck  with  his  conversa- 
tion, and  made  him  free  of  a  circulating  library.  He  read 
greedily  through  the  catalogue,  folios  and  all.  "  At  four- 
teen," says  his  biographer,  '*  he  had,  like  Gibbon,  a  stock 
of  erudition  that  might  have  puzzled  a  doctor,  and  a  de- 


COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY.  319 

gree  of  ignorance  of  which  a  school-boy  would  have  been 
ashamed." 

A  fatherless  boy,  and —  as  he  himself  tells  us  —  "  with- 
out a  spark  of  ambition,"  he  had  seriously  thought  of  ap- 
prenticing himself  to  a  shoemaker  who  lived  near  the 
school.  This  honor  to  the  craft  of  St.  Crispin  was  happily 
prevented  by  the  interference  of  the  head-master.  Cole- 
ridge subsequenth'  became  head  scholar,  and  obtained  from 
the  hospital  a  presentation  to  Jesus  College,  Cambridge, 
which  he  entered  in  his  nineteenth  year,  and  the  ensu- 
ing summer,  gained  the  gold  medal  for  the  Greek  ode. 
Though  a  very  considerable  proficient  in  classical  studies, 
he  was  once  or  twice  afterward  an  unsuccessful  |andidate 
for  college  honors. 

At  Cambridge  the  poet  spent  two  unfruitful  j-ears.  His 
reading  was  desultor}'  and  capricious ;  he  was  at  any 
time  ready  to  unbend  his  mind  in  conversation,  and  his 
room  was  a  constant  rendezvous  of  conversation-loving 
friends.  These  j-ears,  in  which  he  accomplished  nothing 
but  the  increase  of  an  already  immense  heap  of  undigested, 
miscellaneous  reading,  seem  to  have  been  unsatisfactory 
to  Coleridge;  and  in  1793  he  quitted  college  abruptly 
without  taking  a  degree,  and  went  to  London,  where,  find- 
ing himself  forlorn  and  destitute,  he  resolved  to  get  bread 
by  becoming  a  soldier,  and  accordingly  enlisted  under  the 
name  of  ' '  Silas  Titus  Cumberback." 
^.  The  poet  made  a  poor  dragoon,  and  is  said  never  to  have 
'^  advanced  beyond  the  awkward  squad ;  he  wrote  letters, 
however,  for  all  his  comrades,  and  they,  in  return,  attended 
to  his  horse  and  accoutrements.  After  a  military  oaj^eer  of 
four  months,  his  situation  became  known  to  his  friends, 
who  had  meanwhile  been  at  a  loss  to  account  for  his  sud- 
den disappearance ;  and  his  famil}-,  with  some  difficulty, 
effected  his  discharge.    In  April,  1794,  Coleridge  returned 


820  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

to  Cambridge  ;  the  adventures  of  the  preceding  six  months 
having  broken  the  continuity  of  his  college  life,  he  had 
now  no  chance  of  obtaining  a  fellowship  at  the  universit}', 
and  having  shut  himself  out  from  the  advantages  that 
might  have  lain  open  to  him  as  a  member  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church,  by  professing  himself  a  Unitarian,  he  re- 
mained onl}^  till  the  beginning  of  the  summer  vacation. 

At  this  period  of  his  Ufe  Coleridge  was  an  ardent  re- 
publican and  a  Socinian ;  and  now  he  met  for  the  first 
time  Southey,  whose  friendship  through  his  whole  hfe  was 
of  the  intensest  value  to  him.  Full  of  high  hopes  and 
anticipations,  —  "  the  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn,"  — 
Coleridge,  Southey,  and  Lovell,  another  poetical  enthusiast, 
from  building  air-castles  came  to  framing  commonwealths. 
The  three  friends  resolved  to  emigrate  to  America,  where, 
amid  the  wilds  of  the  Susquehanna,  they  were  to  found  a 
pantisocrac}^  in  which  beatific  state  of  society  all  things 
were  to  be  in  common,  and  neither  king  nor  priest  should 
mar  the  universal  felicity.  This  Utopian  dream  was  never 
realized  ;  it  is  said  from  a  very  prosaic  cause,  the  want  of 
funds. 

From  pantisocracy  the  three  poets  turned  their  at- 
tention to  matrimony ;  and  three  fair  sisters,  the  Misses 
Fricker  of  Bristol,  became  the  respective  wives  of  each. 
To  make  provision  for  marriage,  Coleridge  and  Southey 
gave  public  lectures  at  Bristol.  Coleridge  lectured  on 
political,  religious,  and  moral  subjects.  Lamb  saj's  of 
one  of  these  lectures,  ''It  is  the  most  eloquent  politics 
that  ever  came  in  my  way ; "  yet  they  seem  not  to  have 
made  much  addition  to  his  income,  and  one  can  scarcely 
imagine  a  more  forlorn  picture  of  "  Love  in  a  Cottage," 
minus  kitchen  and  larder  furnishment,  than  is  suggested 
by  Coleridge's  letter  to  his  friend  Cottle,  dated  two  days 
after  marriage,  from  his  cottage  at  Cleveden,  near  Bristol, 


COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY.  321 

in  which  he  begs  him  to  *'  send  down  without  dela}',  a 
riddle  slice,  a  candle-box,  two  ventilators,  one  tin  dust- 
pan, two  glasses  for  the  wash-hand  stand,  one  small  tin 
teakettle,  one  pair  of  candlesticks,  one  flour  dredge,  three 
tin  extinguishers,  one  carpet-brush,  two  large  tin  spoons, 
two  mats,  a  pair  of  slippers,  a  cheese-toaster,  a  Bible,  and 
a  keg  of  porter,  coffee,  rice,  catsup,  raisins,  currants, 
nutmegs,  allspice,  cinnamon,  cloves,  ginger,  and  mace." 
Some  one  has  suggested  that  it  must  have  been  after  the 
receipt  of  these  trifles  that  Coleridge,  writing  to  his  friend, 
calls  it  his  ''  Comfortable  Cot." 

In  April,  1796,  Coleridge's  volume  of  poems,  containing 
most  of  those  pieces  which  have  been  published  under 
the  title  of  "Juvenile  Poems,"  appeared.  The  volume 
afforded  but  slight  indication  of  the  coming  splendors 
of  *' Christabel."  In  the  j-ear  following  Coleridge  went 
to  live  at  Stowey ;  here,  in  the  closest  friendship  with 
Wordsworth,  who  then  lived  at  Allfoxden,  only  about 
two  miles  from  Stowey,  were  spent  two  or  three  years, 
the  most  felicitous  and  illustrious  of  his  literary  life.  Here 
he  wrote  some  of  his  most  beautiful  poetry,  —  the  first 
and  finest  part  of  "  Christabel ;  "  the  exquisite  little  poem 
entitled  "  Love  ; "  his  best  traged}',  "  Remorse  ;  "  "  Kubla 
Khan,"  that  consummate  fragment  of  weird  melody,  so 
like  "  a  dream  remembered  in  a  dream ;  "  and  that  won- 
derful poem,  "  The  Ancient  Mariner." 

In  1798  Coleridge  officiated  in  the  Unitarian  pulpit  in 
the  parish  of  Shrewsbury,  in  the  absence  of  their  pastor. 
Hazlitt  walked  ten  miles  on  a  winter's  day  to  hear  the 
poet  preach ;  thus  he  describes  it :  — 

"  As  he  gave  out  his  text,  his  voice  rose  like  a  steam  of  rich, 
distilled  perfumes;  he  launched  into  his  subject  like  an  eagle 
dallying  with  the  wind.  The  idea  of  St.  John  came  into  my  mind, 
of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  who  had  his  loins  girt  about, 

21 


322       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

and  whose  food  was  locusts  and  wild  honey.  It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  his  prayer  might  have  floated  in  solemn  silence  through 
the  universe.  For  myself,  I  could  not  have  been  more  delighted 
if  I  had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres." 


Coleridge  now  received  an  invitation  to  the  Shrewsbury- 
pulpit.  The  Wedgewoods  —  two  wealthy  brothers,  who 
were  his  munificent  patrons  —  were  strongly  attached  to 
the  Established  Church  ;  and  believing  that  as  a  clergyman 
of  the  Unitarian  faith  his  talents  would  be  eraploj'ed  in 
promulgating  false  and  pernicious  doctrines,  they  offered 
him  one  hundred  pounds  if  he  would  reject  the  invitation. 
This  bid  seems  to  have  been  too  low  ;  it  was  declined,  and 
Coleridge  assumed  the  pastorship.  A  subsequent  offer 
from  the  same  source,  of  an  annuity  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  a  3'ear  for  an  indefinite  series  of  years,  was 
too  much  for  the  preacher's  weak  virtue.  His  convictions 
were  worth  more  to  him  than  a  hundred  pounds ;  but  a 
hundred  and  fift^^  pounds  a  year  was  to  be  considered ! 
And  after  some  grave  deliberation  "  St.  John "  ungirt 
his  loins,  and  cried  no  more  in  the  wilderness.  Judge 
him  not  too  hastily ;  this  bribe,  to  a  dreamy  and  indolent 
man,  was  no  small  temptation ;  and  God  only  knows  how 
many  possible  Judases  live  and  die  St.  Johns  solely  for 
lack  of  the  "price." 

Coleridge's  religious  speculation  was  emblematic  of  him- 
self, —  a  man  of  high  endowment  and  lax  purpose,  having 
an  eye  to  discern  the  beauty  of  holiness,  but  lacking  the 
courage  and  will  to  attain  it.  Languid  and  irresolute,  he 
(to  use  his  own  words)  "skirts  the  howling  deserts  of 
infidelity,"  and  is  by  turns  Jacobin  and  Ro^'alist,  Unitarian 
and  Trinitarian.  "  Coleridge,"  says  Carlyle,  "  knew  the 
sublime  secret  of  believing  by  the  reason  what  the  under- 
standing had  been  obliged  to  fling  out  as  incredible  ;  and 


COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY.  323 

after  Hume  and  Voltaire  had  done  their  best  and  worst 
with  him,  he  could  still  profess  himself  an  orthodox 
Christian,  and  saj^  to  the  Church  of  England,  with  its 
singular  old  rubrics  and  surpUces,  at  All-Hallowtide, 
JEsto  perpetua  I " 

Having  concluded  this  financial  arrangement,  Coleridge 
was  now  enabled  to  cany  out  a  long-cherished  plan  of 
visiting  Germany  in  company  with  Wordsworth.  There 
he  resided  fourteen  months,  acquiring  a  well-grounded 
knowledge  of  the  German  language  and  literature,  and 
becoming  confirmed  in  his  bias  for  philosophy  and  meta- 
physics. On  his  return  he  went  to  live  with  Southej',  at 
Keswick,  and  now  became  a  warm  and  devoted  believer 
in  the  Trinity.  He  published  at  this  time  his  translation 
of  Schiller's  ''  Wallenstein,"  and  as  a  means  of  subsist- 
ence, reluctantly  consented  to  undertake  the  literary  and 
political  department  of  the  "  Morning  Post.**  In  1804  he 
became  Secretary  to  the  Governor  in  Malta,  with  an  an- 
nual salary  of  eight  hundred  pounds.  Disagreeing  with 
the  Governor,  he  held  this  lucrative  ofl3ce  but  nine  months, 
and  after  a  tour  in  Italy,  returned  to  England  to  resume 
his  precarious  labors  as  author  and  lecturer. 

It  is  painful  to  follow  farther  the  wasted  years  of  Cole- 
ridge. His  desultorj^  and  irregular  habits  had  become 
confirmed  by  constant  addiction  to  that  dreadful  vice,  self- 
indulgence.  He  now  completely  surrendered  himself  to 
opium.  "At  one  time,**  sa^'s  Southey,  *' his  ordinary 
consumption  of  laudanum  was  from  two  quarts  a  week  to 
a  pint  a  da}-.**  He  appears,  even  in  his  most  contrite  con- 
fessions, to  have  solaced  his  conscience  by  imputing  this 
sin  to  morbid  bodily  causes ;  3'et  medical  men  have  uni- 
formly ascribed  the  evil  not  to  bodily  disease,  but  alto- 
gether to  indulgence. 

In  spite  of  this  detestable  vice,  Coleridge  had  many 


324       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

warm  friends,  who  never  deserted  him.  Cottle,  his  bi- 
ographer, was  one  of  these,  and  he  now  proposed  to  raise 
an  annuity  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  to  be  held  in 
trust  for  him. 

"  On  what  grounds,"  writes  Southey  to  Cottle,  "  can  such  a 
subscription  as  you  propose  raising  for  Coleridge  be  solicited? 
His  miseries  of  body  and  mind  all  arise  from  one  accursed 
cause,  —  excess  in  opium.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  of 
the  costliness  of  this  drug.  In  the  quantity  which  Coleridge 
takes,  it  would  consume  more  than  the  whole  which  you  propose 
to  raise.  A  frightful  consumption  of  spirits  is  added.  Noth- 
ing is  wanted  to  make  him  in  easy  circumstances  but  to  leave 
off  opium,  and  to  direct  a  certain  portion  of  his  time  to  the  dis- 
charge of  his  duties.  There  are  two  Reviews,  the  '  Quarterly,' 
and  the  '  Eclectic,'  in  both  of  which  he  might  have  employment 
at  ten  guineas  a  sheet." 

But  to  every  plan  proposed  Coleridge  was  irreconcilably 
averse.  His  wife  and  children  received  from  him  onlj* 
half  of  the  Wedgewood  annuity  (one  of  the  brothers  hav- 
ing withdrawn  his  portion),  and  the}'  now  sought  shelter 
beneath  Southey's  kindly  roof.  The  health  and  spirits  of 
the  forsaken  wife  were  beginning  to  sink  under  her  trials, 
and  still  Coleridge  sank  lower  and  lower  in  the  depths  of 
that  misery  into  which  he  had  plunged  open-e^'ed.  For  a 
time  he  placed  himself  under  the  care  of  a  ph3'sician ;  and 
while  in  his  hands  he  thus  writes  :  — 

*'  I  am  unworthy  to  call  any  good  man  friend.  .  .  .  Conceive 
a  spirit  in  hell  employed  in  tracing  out  for  others  the  road  to 
that  heaven  from  which  his  crimes  exclude  him !  In  short,  con- 
ceive whatever  is  most  wretched,  helpless,  and  hopeless,  and 
you  will  form  as  tolerable  a  notion  of  my  state  as  it  is  possible 
for  any  good  man  to  have." 

Mentally  and  morally  irregular,  the  days  of  Coleridge 
were  now  given  up  to  magnificent  self-deceptions  and  vague 


COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY.  325 

speculatioDS,  now  filled  with  vain  excuses  for  the  past 
or  weak  resolutions  for  the  future,  and  the  whining  cant 
of  self-condemnation.  Never  was  he  a  valiant-hearted 
victor,  yet  ever  but  half  vanquished.  One  can  scarcely 
conceive  a  thing  more  mournful  than  this  ''greatly  sin- 
ning and  greatly  aspiring  soul."  On  the  19th  of  April, 
1816,  Coleridge  went  to  reside  permanently  with  Mr. 
Gillman  of  Highgate,  who  is  described  as  "an  amiable, 
weak-minded  man,  a  professed  admirer  of  the  poet,  and 
attaching  the  highest  importance  to  all  that  concerned 
him,  and  flattered  at  the  notoriety  which  he  acquired  by 
having  so  distinguished  an  inmate  in  his  house.  There 
for  eighteen  j-ears  the  poet  hved,  watched  over  by  this 
good  man  and  his  gentle-hearted  wife,  who  shared  her  hus- 
band's admiration  for  the  poet.  The  quantity  of  opium  in 
which  he  now  indulged  was  much  diminished ;  and  his 
mind  had  assumed  a  more  healthy  tone.  Yet  never  did 
he  wholly  abstain  from  its  use  ;  nor  were  his  faculties  ever 
restored  to  their  original  vigor. 

After  having  spent  a  year  with  the  Gillmans,  Coleridge 
published  what  he  called  his  ''  La}^  Sermons."  Neither 
Coleridge's  experience  nor  his  habits  of  mind  fitted  him 
to  be  a  safe  guide  in  weighty  matters,  and  his  tracts  are 
of  little  value.  Of  Coleridge's  lectures  only  fragments  have 
been  preserved,  as  he  seldom  wrote  them  out  previous  to 
delivery.  His  criticisms  on  Shakespeare,  delivered  in  one 
of  these  courses,  have  since  been  collected  and  published. 
Though  of  very  unequal  value,  they  are  distinguished  by 
their  keenness,  subtletj^  and  discrimination,  and  are  thought 
to  be  among  the  best  in  the  language.  His  reputation  as 
a  poet  was  greatl}^  increased  at  this  time  by  the  publica- 
tion of  the  second  part  of  "  Christabel,"  "  Kubla  Khan," 
"  The  Pains  of  Sleep,"  and  *'  Sibylline  Leaves."  In  the 
autumn  of  1818  "  Zapoj-la  "  was  composed  and  published. 


326       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

The  principal  occupation  of  Coleridge's  later  years  con- 
sisted in  conversation.  Eminently  distinguished  by  the 
power  and  beauty  of  his  oral  discourse,  the  use  of  un- 
natural stimulants  enabled  him  to  make  those  brilliant  dis- 
plays exhibited  in  bewitching  oracular  monologues,  which 
he  would,  it  is  said,  continue  in  an  unbroken  strain  from 
hour  to  hour,  while  his  hearers,  as  Carlyle  has  it,  "  must 
sit  as  passive  buckets,  and  be  pumped  into  whether  they 
consent  or  not.  .  .  .  No  talk,"  he  adds,  ''  in  his  century, 
or  in  any  other,  could  be  more  surprising ;  he  spoke  as  if 
preaching ;  you  would  have  said,  preaching  earnestly  and 
also  hopelessly  the  weightiest  things." 

Coleridge  said  to  Lamb  one  day,  "  Charles,  did  you 
ever  hear  me  preach?"  ''  I  never  heard  j^ou  do  anything 
else,"  was  the  apt  reply.  ''  Only,  now,  listen  to  his  talk," 
says  this  genial  friend ;  ''  it  is  as  fine  as  an  angel's." 

In  such  scraps  as  are  noted  down  in  the  "  Table  Talk," 
there  are  great  inequalities,  —  fine  thoughts  finely  ex- 
pressed, and  passages  only  striking  for  their  arrogance 
and  ignorance.  Yet  these  reports  are  said  to  give  no  idea 
of  the  style  of  his  conversation.  Sa3-s  Sterling,  "I  was 
in  his  company  about  three  hours,  and  of  that  time  he 
spoke  during  two  and  three  quarters.  It  would  have  been 
delightful  to  listen  as  attentively,  and  certainly  as  easy 
for  him  to  speak  just  as  well,  for  the  next  forty-eight 
hours." 

In  1825  Coleridge  published  his  "Aids  to  Reflection ; " 
but  as  a  whole  his  life  at  Highgate  presents  a  sad  picture 
of  intellectual  vagaries  and  decline.  There  he  lived  for 
eighteen  gracious  years,  ignobly  shirking  the  duties  and 
responsibilities  of  life  ;  mapping  out  for  himself  great  works 
which  were  never  completed,  if  so  much  as  begun ;  en- 
treating yearly  contributions  from  his  friends  to  enable 
him  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  that  literary  labor  for 


COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY.         32T 

which  he  was,  in  sooth,  mentally  incapacitated ;  maintain- 
ing a  hazy  grandeur  of  reputation,  but  to  the  last  infirm 
of  purpose  ;  his  age  unsoothed  by  the  pious  offices  of  wife 
and  children,  from  whom  he,  careless  of  their  mainte- 
nance, had  separated  himself.  Such  is  the  picture  of 
Coleridge  in  his  later  years.  Who  would  not  turn  this 
mournful  portrait  to  the  wall  and  sa}'  with  Charles  Lamb : 
*  •■  Come  back  into  my  memory  like  as  thou  wert  in  the 
dayspring  of  thy  fancies,  with  hope  like  a  fiery  column 
before  thee,  the  dark  pillar  yet  unturned,  —  Samuel  Tay- 
lor Coleridge,  logician,  metaphysician,  bard !  "  On  the 
25th  of  July,  1834,  ended  this  brilliant  but  unfruitful  life. 
If  I  have  dwelt  too  long  on  these  sad  details,  let  me  beg 
to  excuse  myself  in  Coleridge's  own  words:  ''After  mj- 
death  I  earnestly  entreat  that  a  full  and  unqualified  nar- 
rative of  my  wretchedness,  and  of  its  guilty  cause,  may 
be  made  public,  that  at  least  some  good  may  be  effected 
by  my  direful  example."  Surely  in  the  whole  range  of 
biography,  no  mortal  has  ever  so 

"...  flung  away 
The  keys  that  might  have  open  set 
The  golden  sluices  of  the  day." 

Though  associated  with  Wordsworth  as  a  poet  and 
author,  Coleridge  has  told  us  that  he  never  entirely  con- 
curred with  the  laureate  in  his  poetical  views ;  and  in  all 
that  constitutes  artistic  character  his  poetry  is  a  contrast 
to  that  of  Wordsworth.  Coleridge,  far  more  than  Words- 
worth, was  a  poet  **  of  imagination  all  compact."  His 
verse  is  pure  poesy,  without  that  alloy  of  prose  which 
may  be  found  more  or  less  in  Wordsworth's.  Coleridge's 
poetry  is  remarkable  too  for  the  perfection  of  its  execu- 
tion, for  the  exquisite  art  with  which  its  divine  spirit  is 
endowed  with  formal  expression ;   Wordsworth's  poetry 


328  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

is  more  admirable  for  its  inner  spirit  than  for  its  formal 
qualities.  Coleridge  charms  and  bewitches  us  by  that 
exquisite  and  subtle  sense  of  beauty,  that  divine  breath 
which  makes  poetry  what  it  is ;  Wordsworth  sustains  and 
instructs  us  by  proverbial  and  universally  applicable  wis- 
dom and  by  homely  every-day  truths.  The  one  sings  to 
us.  Exquisite  the  melody  is,  ear-charming  and  heart- 
delighting  the  words ;  j^et  when  the  song  is  sung,  we  are 
but  charmed^  seldom  more.  The  other  elevates  us  while 
he  charms,  teaching  us  of  the  beauty  of  holiness,  "  as  one 
having  authority." 

It  has  been  observed  that  "  quantity-  alone  was  wanting 
to  make  Coleridge  the  greatest  poet  of  his  day."  Might 
we  not  say  that  lack  of  quantity  is  just  what  has  made  him 
the  poetf  Qualitj'  rather  than  quantity  is  the  true  test  of 
artistic  excellence.  With  a  muse  as  prolific  as  Southey's 
Coleridge  could  not  have  attained  that  exquisite  elabora- 
tion, that  perfection  of  execution,  in  which  he  was  un- 
matched. The  most  distinguishing  characteristics  of  his 
best  poetry  are  vividness  of  imagination  and  subtlety  of 
thought,  combined  with  unrivalled  beauty  and  expressive- 
ness of  diction,  and  the  most  exquisite  melody  of  verse. 

There  is  not,  as  has  been  remarked,  enough  of  passion  in 
him  to  make  him  the  poet  of  the  multitude.  There  is  not 
in  him  that  pulse  of  fire  that  throbs  and  burns  in  Byron, 
but  rather  that  gentle  and  tremblingly  delicate  sense  of 
beauty,  that  blossoming  of  thought,  that  belongs  to  Spen- 
ser, who  more  than  any  other  poet  may  be  said  to  have 
'*  spoken  "  flowers,  as  the  fairy  did  pearls.  A  critic  has 
happily  said  of  Coleridge^s  poetry :  — 

'*  The  subtly  woven  words,  with  all  their  sky-colors,  seem  to 
grow  out  of  the  thought  or  emotion,  as  the  flower  from  the  stalk, 
or  the  flame  from  its  feeding  oil.  The  music  of  his  verse  is  as 
sweet  and  characteristic  as  anything  in  the  language,  placing 


COLERIDGE  AND   SOUTHEY.  329 

him  for  that  rare  excellence  in  the  same  small  band  with  Shake- 
speare and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  in  their  lyrics,  with  Milton 
and  Collins  and  Shelley  and  Tennyson." 

Coleridge's  earlier  compositions  have  a  declamatory  air, 
and  are  occasionally  awkward  and  turgid  in  style,  —  faults 
from  which  his  maturer  productions  are  entirely  free ;  yet 
even  these  juvenile  pieces  are  radiant  with  purest  sunlight 
of  poesy.  Here  is  a  gem  worthy  of  the  ripened  poet ;  it  is 
entitled  ''  Time,  Real  and  Imaginary  "  :  — 

*'  On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head 
(I  know  not  where,  but  't  was  some  fairy  place), 
Their  pinions  ostrich-like  for  sails  outspread. 
Two  lovely  children  ran  an  endless  race ;  i 

A  sister  and  a  brother 

That  far  outstripped  the  other ; 
Yet  ever  runs  she  with  reverted  face, 
And  looks  and  listens  for  the  boy  behind : 

For  he,  alas  !  is  blind  ! 
O'er  rough  and  smooth  with  even  step  he  passed. 
And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last/* 

In  the  "Religious  Musings"  and  in  the  "  Monody  on 
the  Death  of  Chatterton  "  may  be  found  passages  of  great 
power.  The  ode  entitled  "France,"  written  when  the 
author  was  only  twenty-six,  Shelley  regarded  as  the  finest 
ode  in  the  language.  His  "  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner," 
written  about  the  same  time,  though  not  the  best,  is  the 
most  original  and  striking  of  his  productions. 

Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  at  a  time  when  their  united 
funds  were  very  low,  agreed  to  defray  the  expense  of  a  little 
tour  by  writing  together  a  poem  to  be  sent  to  the  "New 
Monthly  Magazine."  Much  the  greater  part  of  the  story 
was  Coleridge's  invention,  but  certain  parts  were  suggested 
by  Wordsworth.  They  began  the  composition  together; 
but  their  respective  manners  proving  so  widely  different, 


330  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

the  idea  of  making  it  a  conjoint  production  was  soon  relin- 
quislied,  and  Coleridge  proceeded  alone.  "  The  poem  grew 
and  grew,"  says  Wordsworth,  "  till  it  became  quite  too 
important  for  our  first  object,  which  was  limited  to  our  ex- 
pectation of  five  pounds."  The  germ  of  this  story  is  from 
8helvocke  the  navigator,  who  states  that  his  second  captain, 
being  a  melancholy  man,  was  possessed  by  a  fancy  that 
some  long  season  of  foul  weather  was  owing  to  an  albatross 
which  had  steadily  followed  the  ship,  upon  which  he  shot 
the  bird,  but  without  mending  their  condition.  Coleridge 
makes  the  Ancient  Mariner — ''  long  and  lank,  and  brown 
as  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand  "  —  relate  the  imaginary  conse- 
quences of  this  act  of  inhumanity  to  one  of  three  wedding 
guests,  whom  he  meets  on  his  way  to  the  marriage  feast, 
and  interrupting  him  in  his  progress  to  the  banquet,  '•  holds 
him  with  his  glittering  eye." 

"  The  bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  he  is  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set. 
He  hears  the  merry  din. 


He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 

And  listens  like  a  three-years'  child ; 
The  mariner  hath  his  will." 


"  The  Ancient  Mariner  "  is  a  poem  by  itself.  Nothing 
like  it  has  ever  been  done  or  attempted,  or  can  be  done. 
The  versification  is  irregular,  in  the  style  of  the  old  bal- 
lads ;  most  of  the  action  of  the  piece  is  unnatural.  The 
poem  is  full  of  vivid  and  original  imagination;  and  the 
narrative  is  invested  with  touches  of  exquisite  tenderness 
and  energetic  description.  A  weird  wonder  and  mystery 
flows  around  the  reader,  and  holds  him  spell-bound.  The 
supernatural  machinery  of  the  poem  is  managed  with  con- 
summate skill  and  artistic  effect.     The  beings  who  lend 


COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY.  331 

their  mjsterious  aid  to  carry  out  the  horrible  penance  im- 
posed on  the  Ancient  Mariner  for  shooting  the  bird  of  ill 
omen  are  to  the  last  degree,  as  the  Scotch  saj^,  "  eldritch." 
Justice  cannot  be  done  to  this  weird  and  wonderful  poem 
by  quoting  it  piecemeal.  The  narrative  is  too  intense  in 
its  interest  to  bear  the  slightest  break  in  its  thread.  To 
appreciate  it,  the  reader  must  come  under  its  continuous 
spell,  held  like  the  wedding  guest  by  the  Mariner's  glitter- 
ing eye  until  he  listens  like  a  "  three-years*  child."  Not  so 
with  the  true  and  beautiful  bit  of  ethics  at  the  conclusion 
of  his  tale.  This  is  as  perfect  as  a  whole,  as  exquisite 
and  clear-cut,  as  a  fine  antique  head  done  in  cameo. 

"  Farewell,  farewell ;  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  wedding  guest ! 
He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

**  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

In  "  Christabel"  Coleridge  further  illustrates  that  con- 
nection which  we  may  suppose  to  exist  between  the  spiritual 
and  the  material  world.  This  romantic  poem  is  filled  with 
wild  imagery  and  the  most  remarkable  modulation  of  verse. 
The  versification  is  founded  on  Coleridge's  own  principle 
of  irregular  harmony,  which  consists  in  the  accentuation  of 
words  instead  of  syllables.  Scott  and  Byron  were  both 
charmed  with  it,  and  have  imitated  it. 

Coleridge  is  said  to  have  spent  infinite  labor  and  pains 
upon  his  metres,  elaborating  them  to  the  last  degree. 
*'  Christabel"  is  an  instance  of  the  wonderful  success  he 
achieved  in  this  department  of  his  art.  Parts  of  the  poem 
are  as  filmy  and  delicate  as  the  mist-wreaths  of  an  Indian 
summer  morning ;  every  word  is  light  and  music. 


332  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


The  witch  Geraldine,  the  principal  personage  in  the 
poem,  is  an  original  and  highly  weird  conception,  —  a  par- 
tial metamorphosis  of  the  human  into  the  bestial  nature ; 
a  woman  with  snake's  blood  in  her  veins.  *'  There  is,"  it 
has  been  observed,  ''  a  substratum  of  fact  in  this  concep- 
tion, since  there  are  well-attested  accounts  of  children 
having  been  nurtured  by  wolves  until  faint  and  scarcely 
discernible  traces  of  the  human  being  remained."  That 
assimilation  which  is  possible  between  opposite  natures 
(that  interfusion  of  a  positive  evil  nature  with  a  negative 
good  one)  is  demonstrated  in  "  Christabel,"  —  a  psycho- 
logical fact  not  unworthy  the  notice  of  both  scientist 
and  theologian. 

**  Christabel"  is  an  unfinished  work.  Critics  have  va- 
riousl}'  accounted  for  its  incompleteness.  We  may  perhaps 
impute  it  to  Coleridge's  characteristic  indolence.  Another 
reasonable  supposition  is  that  the  poet  found  it  diflicult  to 
assign  a  motive  for  Geraldine's  conduct,  and  for  this  rea- 
son abandoned  the  attempt  to  complete  the  poem.  What- 
ever Coleridge's  obstacles  may  have  been,  the  author  of 
'*  Proverbial  Philosophj^,"  nothing  daunted,  felt  Aimself 
quite  equal  to  the  completion  of  "  Christabel."  Very 
obliging  indeed  it  was  of  Mr.  Tupper  to  finish  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge's poem  for  us.  Dr.  Holmes  has  facetiously  observed 
that  "  he  could  not  more  essentially  and  entirely  have 
finished  himself."  The  bare  attempt  could  be  no  less  than 
sacrilege,  and  the  performance  is  a  miserable  failure ! 

No  writing  could  be  more  gauzily  delicate  than  some 
parts  of  "  Christabel.'*  Here  is  an  exquisite  specimen  of 
that  word-painting  in  which  Coleridge  is  unrivalled :  — 

"  Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare, 
And,  jealous  of  the  listening  air, 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 


COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY.  333 

And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room. 
As  still  as  death,  with  stifled  breath  ! 
And  now  have  reached  her  chamber  door ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

"  The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  they  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet. 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain, 
For  a  lady's  chamber  meet : 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet." 

Some  of  Coleridge's  minor  poems  have  the  same  rich- 
ness of  coloring  and  perfection  of  finish.  It  would  be 
diflacult  to  find  in  our  own  or  any  other  language  a  match 
for  those  exquisite  verses  entitled  ''  Love." 

A  popular  critic  saj^s  of  Coleridge's  "  H3'mn  in  the  "Vale 
of  Chamouni "  :  "  It  is  a  mere  sham,  made  up  like  a  cheap 
panorama  from  engravings,  as  Coleridge,  from  the  testi- 
mony of  his  friend  Wordsworth,  was  never  there."  If 
distance  really/  lends  enchantment,  this  should  not  detract 
from  the  merit  of  the  poem  ;  we  might,  however,  object  to 
its  gorgeous  diffuseness ;  and  though  a  lofty  and  brilliant 
production,  it  is  not  in  Coleridge's  best  vein.  In  his  later 
poetry  Coleridge  gains  depth  and  earnestness  and  mingles 
more  of  the  inspiration  of  the  heart  with  that  of  the  fancy ; 
as  in  that  "gem  without  a  flaw,"  entitled  "Love,  Hope, 
and  Patience  in  Education,"  and  in  that  entitled  "  Youth 
and  Age."  The  concluding  lines  remind  one  of  the  quaint 
pathos  of  Herrick. 

*'  O  Youth !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet 
'  T  is  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one ; 


884  ENGLISH  POETRY  AJSD  POETS. 

I  '11  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit,  — 
It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  tolled  :  — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 
I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size  : 
But  spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips. 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  ! 
Life  is  but  thought :  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 
Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life 's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old  : 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking  leave  ; 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest. 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismissed. 
Yet  hath  outstayed  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile." 

Coleridge's  dramas  are  deficient  in  strong  passion  and 
rapid  energy  of  action ;  and  though  as  works  of  genius, 
the}^  vastly  excel  many  popular  acting  plaj's,  posterity  will 
confirm  what  has  already  been  said  of  them,  —  "  beautiful 
but  impracticable."  *' Remorse,"  as  a  drama  intended 
for  the  closet,  rather  than  the  stage,  may  take  its  place 
among  the  standard  literature  of  our  country ;  while 
**Zapo3ia"  for  perfection  of  language  and  versification 
ma}^  be  studied  as  a  model.  His  translation  of  Schiller's 
*'  Wallenstein,"  said  to  have  been  executed  in  six  weeks, 
has  been  pronounced  even  preferable  to  the  original.  Cole- 
ridge's rich  musical  numbers,  the  beauty  of  his  language, 
and  frequent  amplification  of  the  thought,  make  it  rather 
a  poem  than  a  translation.     These  numbers,  in  which  Wal- 


COLERIDGE  AND   SOUTHEY.  335 

lenstein,  looking  forth  into  the  wind}'  night  in  search  of 
the  star  of  his  nativity,  recalls  to  mind  the  death  of  Max, 
and  bemoans  his  loss,  affect  the  heart  and  ear  like  a  spell. 

"  He  is  gone,  he  is  dust ! 
He,  the  more  fortunate !  yea,  he  hath  finished ! 
His  life  is  bright, — bright  without  spot  it  teas 
And  cannot  cease  to  be.     No  ominous  hour 
Knocks  at  his  door  with  tidings  of  mishap. 
Far  ofE  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear ; 
No  more  submitted  to  the  change  and  chance 
Of  the  unsteady  planets.     O,  't  is  well 
With  him  !  but  who  knows  what  the  coming  hour 
Veiled  in  thick  darkness  brings  for  us ! 

.  .  .  The  bloom  is  vanished  from  my  life, 
For  0 !  he  stood  beside  me  like  my  youth. 
Transformed  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream, 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn. 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future  toils, 
The  beautiful  is  vanished,  and  returns  not ! " 

In  summing  up  the  merits  of  Coleridge's  poetry,  "beauti- 
ful as  it  is,  we  must  admit  the  mournful  truth  that  *'  it 
indicates  more  than  it  achieves."  From-  childhood  to  age 
visions  of  grace,  tenderness,  and  majest}^  seem  ever  to 
have  haunted  him.  Some  of  these  he  embodied  in  exqui- 
site but  often  fragmentary  verse.  That  concentration  and 
steadiness  of  purpose  necessary  to  him  who  would  turn 
his  intellectual  wealth  to  account  he  miserabl}'  lacked. 
A  happier  destiny,  which  he  himself  might  have  shaped, 
was  wanting.  Much  of  his  life  was  spent  in  povert}'  and 
dependence,  and  in  t^Tannical  self-indulgence  that  bred 
for  him  disappointment  and  ill  health ;  and  thus  in  days 
of  distasteful  drudgery  for  the  periodical  press  or  of  aim- 
less, indolent  lotos-eating,  he  wasted  —  to  use  his  own 
expression  —  *'the  prime  and  manhood  of  his  intellect" 


336       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Holding  the  key  to  every  hidden  chamber  of  profound  and 
subtle  thought,  and  every  ethereal  conception,  equally 
master  of  the  wildest  imagery,  the  airiest  fanc}^  and  the 
most  melodious  harmonies,  before  posterit}'  he  stands 
abased  beside  the  humblest  mortal  who,  battling  with  the 
flesh  and  the  Devil,  has  obtained  the  mastery  of  himself, 
albeit  he  never  — 

**  On  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
Or  drank  the  milk  of  Paradise." 

Robert  Southe}-,  in  the  commencement  of  his  literary 
career  the  associate  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  has 
with  them  been  properly  reckoned  as  one  of  the  Lake 
poets. 

Southey  was  born  in  1774.  Having  passed  with  credit 
through  Westminster  School,  he  was  entered  at  Oxford  in 
1792.  His  friends  designed  him  for  the  Church  ;  but  the 
poet  became  a  Jacobin  and  Socinian,  and  his  academic 
career  was  abruptly  closed.  In  1795  Southey  married 
Miss  Edith  Fricker  of  Bristol,  sister  of  the  lad}-  whom 
Coleridge  afterward  married.  He  is  said  to  have  parted 
with  his  wife  immediately  after  the  ceremonj',  at  the  por- 
tico of  the  church,  to  set  out  on  his  travels  in  Portugal. 
In  1797  he  returned  to  England,  and  entered  himself  at 
Gray*s  Inn.  In  the  same  year  his  ''Thalaba"  was  pub- 
lished. Subsequently  the  poet  established  himself  at 
Greta  Hall,  Keswick,  where  he  spent  the  remainder  of 
his  life. 

In  1813  Southey  accepted  the  oflSce  of  poet  laureate. 
Subsequently  he  was  offered  a  baronetcy  and  a  seat  in 
Parliament,  both  of  which  he  prudently  declined,  prefer- 
ring to  seek  fame  and  fortune  by  adhering  to  his  solitary 
studies.  These  were,  unhappil}',  too  constant  and  unin- 
terrupted.    ''Every  day,  every  hour,"  says  his  biogra- 


COLERIDGE  AND   SOUTHEY.  337 

pher,  '*had  its  allotted  employment,  —  alwaj-s  were  there 
engagements  to  publishers  imperativeh'  requiring  punctual 
fulfilment ;  always  the  current  expenses  of  a  large  house- 
hold to  take  anxious  thought  for.  For  although  his  mode 
of  life  was  as  simple  and  inexpensive  as  possible,  his 
expenditure  was  with  difficulty  kept  within  his  income, 
owing  to  his  noble  liberality  to  the  distressed,  and  the 
considerable  sums  which  were  rcgularlj^  drawn  from  him 
b}"  his  less  successful  relatives.  The  entire  familj^  of  Cole- 
ridge had  taken  shelter  under  his  kindly  roof  and  shared 
his  bounty.  He  was,  too,  constantly  adding  new  purchases 
to  his  library,  which  at  his  death  consisted  of  about  four- 
teen thousand  volumes,  —  probably  the  largest  number  of 
books  ever  collected  by  a  person  of  such  limited  means. 
*  My  ways,*  he  used  to  say,  *  are  as  broad  as  the  King's 
high-road,  and  m}'  means  lie  in  an  ink-stand.*" 

A  thoroughly  domestic  man,  his  whole  pleasure  and 
happiness  is  said  to  have  been  centred  in  his  home ;  yet 
he  could  not,  however  he  might  wish  it,  give  time  for  the 
summer  evening  walk,  or  make  one  of  a  circle  around  the 
winter  hearth,  or  even  spare  time  for  conversation  after  the 
family  meals. 

In  personal  appearance  Southey  is  said  to  have  been 
ver}'  striking,  and  in  his  early  days  he  had  been  con- 
sidered the  beau-ideal  of  a  poet.  Lord  BjTon  speaks  of 
his  appearance  as  "  epic,"  and  says,  ''  To  have  his  head 
and  shoulders,  I  would  almost  have  written  his  Sapphics.'* 
He  was  extremel}^  courteous  in  manner,  and  frank  and 
pleasant  in  conversation ;  to  his  intimates,  wholly  unre- 
served ;  disposed  to  give  and  receive  pleasure,  and  freely- 
pouring  forth  his  vast  stores  of  information  upon  almost 
every  subject. 

His  library  was  his  world,  within  which  he  was  content 
to  range ;  and  his  books  were  his  most  cherished  and  con- 

22 


338  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

stant  companions.  It  is  melancholy  to  reflect  that  foi 
nearly  three  j^ears  before  his  death  he  sat  among  them 
in  hopeless  vacuity  of  mind. 

Acutely  sensitive  by  nature,  and  highlj^  predisposed  to 
nervous  disease,  the  forty  jears  of  incessant  mental  appli- 
cation which  he  had  passed  through  had  at  length  over- 
clouded his  great  mind,  and  brought  upon  him  premature 
decay.  His  mind  was  beautiful  even  in  its  debility.  He 
was  often,  it  is  said,  conscious  of  losing  himself  for  a 
moment  in  conversation,  and  then  an  expression  of 
pain  and  of  touching  resignation  would  pass  over  his 
face.  He  spoke  openly  of  his  altered  condition ;  and 
though  doing  nothing,  he  would  frequently  anticipate  a 
return  of  his  powers.  His  mind,  while  any  spark  of  reason 
remained,  was  busy  with  its  old  day-dreams  ;  works  which 
he  had  projected  were  to  be  taken  in  hand,  completed,  and 
new  works  added  to  these.  Long  after  he  had  ceased  to 
compose,  he  took  pleasure  in  reading,  and  the  habit  con- 
tinued even  after  the  power  of  comprehension  was  gone. 
His  beloved  books  were  a  pleasure  to  him  to  the  end  ;  and 
when  he  had  ceased  to  read  them,  he  would  walk  slowly 
round  his  library  looking  at  them,  and  taking  them  down 
mechanically. 

At  last  no  glimmering  of  reason  appeared ;  the  body 
grew  weaker ;  and  after  a  short  attack  of  fever,  he  died 
on  the  21st  of  March,  1843.  Wordsworth  —  his  only 
intimate  friend  within  reach  —  crossed  the  hills  on  a  wild 
March  morning  to  follow  his  dear  remains  to  their  rest- 
ing-place in  the  beautiful  churchyard  at  Crossthwaite  ;  and 
when  the  April  sod  grew  green  upon  his  grave,  all  who 
loved  him  thanked  God  that  there  he  rested. 

Southey's  first  epic,  "  Joan  of  Arc,"  a  portion  of  which 
was  written  by  Coleridge,  was  published  in  1796.  In  1801 
he  brought  out  a  second  epic,  "  Thalaba,  the  Destroyer." 


COLERIDGE  AND   SOUTHEY.  339 

In  1804  he  published  a  volume  of  metrical  tales ;  the  fol- 
lowing year  '' Madoc,"  another  epic,  saw  the  light;  and 
in  1810  appeared  his  greatest  poetical  work,  ''  The  Curse 
of  Kehama." 

Coleridge's  recipe  for  an  epic  is  this  :  "  I  would  take," 
says  the  poet,  "  twenty  years  for  the  production  of  an 
epic,  —  ten  to  familiarize  me  with  the  subject  chosen,  to 
travel  and  gain  a  personal  knowledge  of  the  locale,  and 
acquaint  mj'self  thoroughlj^  with  history  pertaining  thereto. 
I  would  wish  also  to  be  somewhat  a  man  of  science,  to 
understand  botany,  geology,  mineralogy,  astronomj^, 
geography,  ichth3^ology,  concholog}',  medicine  and  chem- 
istry, mechanics,  mathematics,  etc.,  etc.  I  would  then 
devote  five  years  to  the  composition  of  the  poem,  and  five 
to  its  revision."  If  such  be  the  process  requisite  to  the  pro- 
duction of  an  epic,  what  shall  we  say  of  a  man  who  turned 
off  four  in  fourteen  j'ears  ?  We  must,  in  charity,  imagine 
that  he  suffered  under  what  Milton  calls  "  the  disease  of 
making  books."  Southe}'  wrote  not  wisely,  but  too  much  ; 
he  is  said  to  have  written  more  than  even  Scott,  and  to 
have  burned  more  verses  between  his  twentieth  and  thir- 
tieth year  than  he  published  in  his  whole  hfetime  ! 

A  scholar,  antiquar}^,  critic,  and  historian ;  gifted  with 
a  remarkable  memory,  which  enabled  him  to  command  a 
vast  supply  of  materials  for  whatever  subject  he  was  em- 
ployed upon,  and  always,  it  is  said,  collecting  for  his  sub- 
ject an  infinitely  greater  quantity  of  materials  than  he  ever 
made  use  of;  yet  with  all  his  ingenuity  and  fertility,  lack- 
ing *'  the  vision  and  the  facult}"  divine,"  —  Southey  is  not 
an  original  poet.  His  genius  was  rather  imitative  than 
creative.  He  could  only  put  forth  his  strength  while  mov- 
ing in  a  beaten  track.  And  moreover,  he  lacks  spon- 
taneity. He  is  a  poet  by  profession,  not  one  by  divine 
right,  — one  who  carols  like  the  bird,  and  — 


340       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

'*  Knows  not  why  nor  whence  he  sings, 
Nor  whither  goes  his  warbled  song." 

In  the  '*  Curse  of  Kehama,"  his  most  elaborate  poem, 
there  is  much  splendor  and  beaut}',  yet  in  parts  it  is  both 
tame  and  monotonous.  The  story  is  founded  upon  the 
Hindu  mythology,  ''which"  (as  Sir  Walter  Scott  ob- 
serves) "  is  the  most  gigantic,  cumbrous,  and  extravagant 
system  of  idolatrj'  to  which  temples  were  ever  erected." 
Kehama  is  a  Hindu  rajah  —  an  Oriental  Dr.  Faustus  — 
who  obtains  and  sports  with  supernatural  power.  The 
scene  is  alternately  laid  in  the  terrestrial  Paradise,  under 
the  sea,  in  the  heaven  of  heavens,  and  in  hell  itself.  Of 
the  principal  actors,  one  is  almost  omnipotent,  the  other, 
by  a  strange  and  fatal  malediction,  is  exempted  from  the 
ordinar}^  laws  of  nature.  A  good  genius,  a  sorceress,  a 
ghost,  and  Hindustan  deities  of  various  ranks,  figure  in 
the  work  ;  the  only  being  that  retains  the  usual  attributes 
of  humanity  is  gifted  with  immortality  before  the  curtain 
drops  ;  surely  weird  invention  could  no  farther  go !  The 
poem  displays  a  wild  imagination  and  vivid  scene-paint- 
ing, which  has  the  merit  of  fidelity,  Southey  being  too  dili- 
gent a  student  to  omit  whatever  was  characteristic  in  the 
landscape  or  the  people.  In  manners,  sentiment,  scenery, 
and  costume  it  is  distinctly  and  exclusively  Hindu. 

"  The  Curse  of  Kehama"  is  redundant  in  description, 
and  has  the  rare  merit  of  being  terrible  without  being 
revolting.  The  poem  is  remarkable  for  sustained  dra- 
matic ingenuity,  and  evinces  the  hand  and  eye  of  the  true 
scholar.  If  Southey  is  not  a  great  poet,  he  is  a  great 
story-teller.  No  modern  sensation  novel  is  more  enchant- 
ing to  the  lover  of  fiction;  and  the  moral  tone  of  the 
poem  is  unquestionable.  Southey,  both  in  prose  and 
verse,  is  thoroughly  and  unaffectedly  English.     His  versi- 


COLERIDGE  AND  SOUTHEY.  341 

fication  is  sometimes  abrupt  and  affected.  His  power  lies 
chiefly  in  fancy  and  the  invention  of  his  subject.  In  de- 
scription he  is  often  striking  and  impressive ;  yet  not- 
withstanding an  ambition  of  originality  which  led  him  to 
Arabia  and  Hindustan  for  his  models,  he  cannot,  I  think, 
lay  claim  to  true  creative  genius.  "  The  Curse  of  Kehama  " 
embodies  what  is  best  in  Southe}',  as  well  as  his  peculiar 
idiosyncrasies.  There  is  much  splendor  and  beauty  in  his 
description  of  Ereenia,  the  Glendoveer,  or  pure  spirit ;  yet 
it  will  be  seen  that  conciseness  would  have  made  it  far 
more  admirable.     It  is  a  fair  example  of  Southey's  style : 

"  And  never  yet  did  form  more  beautiful, 
In  dreams  of  night  descending  from  on  high, 
Bless  the  religious  virgin's  gifted  sight, 

Nor  like  a  vision  of  delight 
Eise  on  the  raptured  poet's  inward  eye. 

Of  human  form  divine  was  he, 
The  immortal  youth  of  heaven  who  floated  by. 
Even  such  as  that  divinest  form  shall  be 

In  those  blest  stages  of  our  onward  race. 
When  no  infirmity, 
Low  thought,  nor  base  desire,  nor  wasting  care. 

Deface  the  semblance  of  our  heavenly  sire. 

**  The  wings  of  eagle  or  of  cherubim 

Had  seemed  unworthy  him ; 
Angelic  power  and  dignity  and  grace 
Were  in  his  glorious  pinions  ;  from  the  neck 
Down  to  the  ankle  reached  their  swelling  web, 

Richer  than  robes  of  Tyrian  dye,  that  deck 
Imperial  majesty : 

Their  colour  like  the  winter's  moonless  sky, 

When  all  the  stars  of  midnight's  canopy 
Shine  forth  ;  or  like  the  azure  steep  at  noon. 

Reflecting  back  to  heaven  a  brighter  blue. 

*'  Such  was  their  tint  when  closed ;  but  when  outspread. 
The  permeating  light 


342 


ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


Shed  through  their  substance  thin  a  varying  hue ; 
Now  bright  as  when  the  rose, 
Beauteous  as  fragrant,  gives  to  scent  and  sight 
A  like  delight ;  now  like  the  juice  that  flows 

From  Douro's  generous  vine ; 
Or  ruby,  when  with  deepest  red  it  glows ; 
Or  as  the  morning  clouds  refulgent  shine, 
When,  at  forthcoming  of  the  lord  of  day, 
The  orient,  like  a  shrine. 
Kindles  as  it  receives  the  rising  ray, 

And,  heralding  his  way, 
Proclaims  the  presence  of  the  Power  divine." 


Few  authors  have  written  so  much  and  so  well,  with  so 
little  real  popularity,  as  Southey ;  his  poetry  is  unsuited 
to  the  taste  of  the  present  generation,  and  his  name  and 
fame,  with  his  joys  and  his  griefs,  are  vanishing  like  a  cloud 
from  Skiddaw's  top. 

Some  of  Southey's  youthful  ballads  —  which  were  in 
their  day  extremely  popular  —  and  his  "  Battle  of  Blen- 
heim "  are  examples  of  his  "  Lake  poetry." 

With  "  little  Peterkin  "  in  the  latter  poem,  we  are  often 
puzzled,  in  view  of  the  ''thousand  bodies  rotting  in  the 
sun,"  to  find  — 


.  .  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  1  " 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  843 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT. 

ABOUT  the  3'ear  1799  a  select  circle  assembled  at 
the  dinner- table  of  Walter  Scott.  A  stranger 
had,  unintroduced,  taken  his  seat  among  the  guests.  At 
length,  when  the  cloth  was  removed  and  the  loyal  toasts 
were  disposed  of,  Scott  stood  up,  and  with  a  handsome 
and  complimentary  notice  of  the  ''Pleasures  of  Hope," 
proposed  a  bumper  to  the  author.  "  The  poem,"  he 
added,  "is  in  the  hands  of  all  our  friends;  the  poet" — 
pointing  to  the  young  stranger  on  his  right  —  "I  have 
now  the  high  honor  of  introducing  to  you  as  my  guest." 
Since  then  Campbell's  "  Pleasures  of  Hope"  has  passed 
through  nearly  one  hundred  editions,  been  translated  into 
all  the  chief  Continental  languages,  and  has  become  a 
model  for  imitation  in  school  and  college. 

That  precious  pedigree,  dear  as  the  apple  of  his  e^^e  to 
the  Scotchman's  heart,  was  the  birthright  of  Campbell. 
His  father  was  the  youngest  son  of  a  laird,  and  could 
trace  his  descent  as  far  back  as  the  first  Norman  lord  of 
Loch  —  something!  The  poet  was  born  in  the  city  of 
Glasgow,  July  27,  1777.  Though  a  partially  ruined  mer- 
chant, the  elder  Campbell  had,  not  without  effort,  given 
to  his  son  a  careful  and  liberal  education. 

From  his  cradle  Campbell  became  skilled  in  sweet 
sounds  and  the  power  of  flowing  numbers.  His  mother 
had  a  strong  taste  for  music,  and  delighted  in  singing 


;h  poetry  and  poets. 

her  favorite  Scotch  ballads ;  from  her  he  imbibed  that 
j  fondness  for  ballad  poetry  which,  interwoven  with  the 
I  classic  elegance  of  his  verse,  has  made  its  simple  grace 
and  melody  a  study  in  our  literature. 

Campbell's  mind  was  cast  in  no  ordinary  mould  ;  when 
a  mere  child,  he  was  familiar  with  classic  poetr3',  and  could 
recite  long  passages  from  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets.  At 
the  university  he  carried  off  all  the  prizes,  and  it  was  his 
ambition  to  become  a  ripe  Greek  scholar.  The  local  ce- 
lebrity arising  from  various  early  fruits  of  his  poetic  genius 
induced  him  to  abandon  the  study  of  the  law.  Who  that 
dates  his  first  love  of  poetry  as  an  art  from  the  study 
of  those  poems,  which  still  continue  to  delight  new  gen- 
erations of  readers,  can  regret  that  there  appeared  in 
the  good  city  of  Edinburgh,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1799,  no  modest  shingle  inscribed  "Thomas  Campbell, 
Attorney- at-Law  "  ? 

Campbell's  genius  was  truly  precocious.  Even  his  ear- 
liest productions  have  the  genuine  stamp  upon  them.  His 
"  Pleasures  of  Hope/*  published  at  twent3^-one,  though  in 
some  respects  juvenile  in  execution,  in  its  glowing  impetu- 
osity and  imposing  splendor  of  declamation  evinces  the 
genius  of  a  true  poet  as  clearl}^  as  his  maturest  produc- 
tions. The  classic  taste  and  careful  artistic  finish  of  Camp- 
bell have  given  this  poem  that  hold  upon  the  popular  ear 
which,  more  than  almost  any  other  poem,  it  has  gained 
by  swell  of  sound  rather  than  by  proportion  of  sense. 
Through  the  conventional  habits  of  the  preceding  bad 
school  of  verse-making  in  which  he  had  been  partly 
trained,  and  from  which  in  his  later  compositions  he 
has  emerged,  Campbell  caught  that  hollowness  and  false- 
ness in  expression  which  ma}^  be  found  in  almost  every 
page  of  this  once  popular  poem.  Fine  ear-charming 
words  and  sentences,  with  little  or  no  meaning,  readily 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  345 

won  applause  in  Queen  Anne's  time.  A  more  earnest 
and  deep-thinking  age  now  demands  more  than  this  in 
poetry.  There  is  also  a  want  of  connection  between  the 
different  parts  of  the  poem.  Yet  after  all  these  deduc- 
tions from  the  excellence  of  the  ''Pleasures  of  Hope," 
enough  remains  of  grace  and  elegance  of  diction,  and  of 
pure  and  genuine  sentiment,  to  suggest  a  possible  immor- 
tality for  the  work. 

"  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  a  Pennsylvania  tale,  in  true 
poetic  excellence  far  surpasses  the  "Pleasures  of  Hope." 
It  is  a  polished  and  pathetic  poem,  in  the  old  style  of 
English  pathos  and  poetry,  evincing  by  its  delineations 
of  character  and  passion  a  far  more  luxuriant  and  perfect 
genius.  The  portrait  of  Outalissi,  the  inimitable  painting 
of  the  loves  of  Gertrude  and  Waldegrave,  the  patriarchal 
picture  of  Albert,  and  the  sketches  of  rich,  sequestered 
Penns3'lvanian  scenery,  —  all  displaj^  the  skill  and  finish 
of  the  true  poetic  artist.  A  humorous  critic,  while  admit- 
ting its  jjoetic  beauties,  discovers  in  this  poem  some 
strange  notions  on  the  subject  of  the  natural  history 
of  plants  and  animals.  ''Gertrude,"  he  observes,  "is 
spoken  of  as  reclining  under  a  palm-tree  in  the  valley 
of  W3*oming,  and  tigers  are  inventoried  among  the  deni- 
zens of  our  North  American  forest !  "  However,  as  an 
English  author,  Campbell  may  be  allowed  any  amount  of 
ignorance  in  regard  to  the  land  of  the  star-spangled  ban- 
ner ;  and  the  exquisite  and  touching  pathos  in  which  the 
poem  is  conceived  might  make  ample  amends  for  even 
more  serious  incongruities. 

Campbell's  fine  13'rics  are  purer  in  execution  than  his 
longer  poems ;  in  exquisite  delicacy  of  touch  and  grace 
of  form  they  are  almost  perfect.  No  poetry  of  this  time 
is  probably  so  deeply  inscribed  on  the  heart  and  memory. 
The  most  preferable    of   these   well-known    poems    are 


346       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

''Lochiel's  Warning,"  *' Hohenlinden,"  "The  Exile  of 
Erin,"  "Lord  Ullin's  Daughter,"  "  Song  of  the  Greeks," 
"The  Soldier's  Dream;"  the  very  best  is  "O'Connor's 
Child."  The  fire  and  force  of  this  poem  when,  near  its 
close,  the  bride  of  Connacht  Moran,  urged  onward  by 
the  fervor  of  her  passionate  love  and  grief,  stands  before 
us,  an  inspired  Pythoness,  invoking  the  curse  of  Heaven 
on  the  cruel  murderers  of  her  warrior  lover,  — 

"  Warm  in  his  death-wounds  sepulchred, 
Nor  mass  nor  uUa-lulla  heard 
To  soothe  him  in  his  grave,"  — 

have  perhaps  never  been  excelled  in  lyric  poetry. 

"  The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 
"Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay  ; 
That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look, 
As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 
I  gave,  that  every  bosom  shook 
Beneath  its  iron  mail. 

"  And  go  !  (I  cried)  the  combat  seek. 
Ye  hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek, 
Go  !  —  and  return  no  more ! 
For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 
Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 
The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 
Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unrolled. 

0  stranger  !  by  my  country's  loss ! 
And  by  my  love  !  and  by  the  cross ! 

1  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  severed  nature's  yoke, 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood, 
And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood  — 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  given, 
To  speak  the  malison  of  heaven. 

"  They  would  have  crossed  themselves,  all  mute ; 
They  would  have  prayed  to  burst  the  spell ; 


CAMPBELL  AND   SCOTT.  347 

But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot 
Each  hand  down  powerless  fell ! 
And  go  to  Athunree !  (I  cried) 
High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride ! 
But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls. 
The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls ! 
Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 
Shall  float  as  high  as  mountain  fern ! 
Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know ; 
The  nettles  on  your  hearth  shall  grow ! 
Dead,  as  the  green  oblivious  flood 
That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blood  ! 
Away !  away  to  Athunree  ! 
Where,  downward  when  the  sun  shall  fall, 
The  raven's  wing  shall  be  your  pall ! 
And  not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 
The  visor  from  your  dying  face !  '* 

Campbell,  like  Gray,  whom  in  taste  and  genius  he  re- 
sembles, cannot  be  termed  a  boldly  original  or  inventive 
poet.  He  has  great  elegance  and  elaboration  of  stj'le, 
tolerable  power  and  scope,  both  of  thought  and  fancy  ;  in 
his  shorter  effusions  great  force  and  animation  and  true 
lyric  fire,  with  admirable  terseness  of  style,  and  an  air 
of  tenderness  and  sweetness  over  all,  like  the  delicate 
fragrance  from  a  bed  of  violets.  The  consummate  finish 
of  his  poetry,  and  the  warm,  broad,  generous  humanity 
which  he  evinces,  will  long  keep  his  memor}^  green ;  and 
though  he  has  embodied  in  his  poems  no  profound  truths 
or  bold  originality  of  thought  and  expression,  he  is  more 
sure  of  an  enduring  fame  than  almost  any  of  the  poets  of 
his  time.  It  has  been  well  said  that  "a  popular  author 
has  no  rival  so  formidable  as  his  former  self."  ''The- 
odric,"  published  twenty-five  years  after  the  ' '  Pleasures 
of  Hope,"  failed  to  add  another  wreath  to  Campbell's  lau- 
rels.    It  is  a  domestic  story,  involving  little  incident  or 


ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

fervor  of  passion  ;  and  though  not  without  a  tender  finish 
both  of  thought  and  diction,  as  well  as  elegance  of  word 
and  image,  on  the  pages  of  ''Theodric"  we  look  in  vain 
for  those  brilliant  flashes  of  genius  that  illume  his  earlier 
productions. 

Campbell's  age  and  decline  gave  evidence  of  that  prema- 
ture decay  of  intellectual  power  so  mournfully  displayed 
by  Southey  and  Scott,  —  the  fearful  reaction  of  an  over- 
worked brain  ;  Nature's  fatal  retribution  for  the  sin  of  the 
soul  against  the  bod}'.  Sunny  days  occasionally  bright- 
ened his  decline,  but  the  shadows  were  fast  creeping  upon 
him.  He  who  bad  (as  Byron  expresses  it)  ''dressed  to 
sprucery,  looking  as  if  Apollo  had  sent  him  a  birthday 
suit  or  a  wedding  garment,"  became  careless  of  his  dress. 
He  grew  restless,  indulged  constantly  in  change  of  scene, 
exhibited  an  unfounded  dread  of  poverty,  — though  his  in- 
come  exceeded  that  of  most  poets  and  literary  men ;  for 
by  his  industry  and  perseverance  he  had  surmounted  pe- 
cuniary difficulties,  and  by  his  efforts  had  even  aided  his 
poorer  relatives.  Calculating  that  he  could  live  abroad 
in  greater  seclusion  and  at  cheaper  cost  than  in  England, 
in  1843  Campbell  left  his  country  forever.  At  Boulogne, 
in  June,  1844,  after  a  lingering  decay  of  mind  and  bod}*, 
he  breathed  his  last.  His  latest  literary  consolation  was 
in  the  assurance  that  he  "  had  not  written  one  line  against 
religion  or  virtue." 

Notwithstanding  the  previous  appearance  of  Words- 
worth, Southey,  Coleridge,  and  some  other  writers,  it 
was  Walter  Scott  who  first  in  his  daj^  made  poetry  the 
rage^  and  with  him  properly  commences  the  busy  poetical 
production  of  the  period  which  we  are  now  reviewing. 
Those  who  had  preceded  him  in  the  field  he  inspired  with 
new  activity,  and  it  was  after  his  appearance  that  they 
gave  to  the  world  their  principal  works.    Before  the  break- 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  349 

ing  forth  of  Scott's  bright  day,  neither  Crabbe  nor  Moore 
had  3'et  produced  anything  equal  to  their  powers.  Camp- 
bell, who,  after  attracting  a  large  share  of  the  public  atten- 
tion by  his  "  Pleasures  of  Hope  "  and  a  few  other  short 
pieces,  had  laid  aside  his  lyre  for  some  five  or  six  years, 
returned  to  woo  the  public  favor  by  his  "  Gertrude  of  Wy- 
oming" only  after  Scott  had  directed  the  pubUc  taste  to 
narrative  poetry  ;  and  Byron,  who  eventually  outdid  Scott 
and  forced  him  to  seek  for  greener  laurels  "in  fresh  fields 
and  pastures  new,"  in  the  most  taking  of  his  earlier  pro- 
ductions seems  to  have  owed  his  inspiration  to  the  author 
of  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel."  It  has  been  observed 
that  "his  'Giaour,'  'The  Bride  of  Abydos,'  *  The  Cor- 
sair,' etc.,  were,  in  reality,  only  Oriental  lays  and  ro- 
mances, —  Turkish  *  Marmions '  and  *  Ladies  of  the  Lake,* 
—  yet  containing  nothing  comparable  to  the  great  passages 
in  those  wonderful  poems." 

Walter  Scott  was  born  in  Edinburgh  on  the  15th  of 
August,  1771.  "A  Scotchman,"  says  his  biographer,  "  is 
nothing  without  his  pedigree  ;  and  without  tracing  the  fam- 
ily line  back  to  its  illustrious  stock,  the  ducal  house  of 
Buccleugh,  one  dare  not  pass  over  "  all  of  those  ancestors 
whom  Sir  Walter  especially  loved  to  commemorate.  There 
is  his  great-grandfather  Walter,  called  Beardie,  a  stanch 
old  Jacobite,  who  swore  never  to  cut  his  beard  until 
"  Jamie  should  have  his  own  again ; "  and  as  Jamie 
never  did  get  his  own  again,  he  wore  the  venerable 
appendage  till  the  daj^  of  his  death.  The  portrait  of 
Beardie,  now  at  Abbotsford,  is  said  strongly  to  i*esemble 
Sir  Walter. 

Then  there  is  Beardie's  grandfather,  Auld  Watt  of 
Harden,  a  famous  moss-trooper,  the  hero  of  a  hundred 
Border  songs,  to  whom  nothing  in  the  way  of  plunder 
came  amiss  that  was  not  "  ^oo  hot  or  too  heavy;"  and 


350  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


there  also  is  his  wife,  Mary  Scott,  "  the  Flower  of  Yar- 
row," who,  when  the  last  ox  taken  from  English  pastures 
was  eaten,  gave  her  liege  lord  an  intimation  of  the  poverty 
of  the  larder  by  placing  on  the  board  before  him  a  pair 
of  spurs  in  a  covered  dish,  as  a  hint  that  he  must  bestir 
himself  if  he  wanted  to  dine  on  the  morrow. 

It  was  this  same  stanch  old  Watt  Harden  who,  return- 
ing with  his  armed  retainers  from  a  foray  on  the  rich 
meadows  of  the  south,  driving  a  gallant  herd  before  him, 
after  grudgingly  eying  a  large  haystack  upon  the  road, 
shook  his  fist  at  it,  and  rode  grimly  awa}',  muttering, 
''Bj^  my  soul,  had  ye  hni  four  feet,  yQ  v^^ould  na  stan' 
there  lang ! "  Then  there  is  Auld  Watt's  comely  son, 
who,  riding  a  raid  on  the  lands  of  Sir  Gideon  Murray, 
was  caught  by  the  baron  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged, 
and  cannily  saved  his  neck  by  marrying  the  worst-look- 
ing of  the  baron's  three  unmarketable  daughters,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  "precisely  the  ugliest  girl  in  broad 
Scotland." 

There  too  are  the  minstrels  of  his  race,  —  rough  old 
Walter  Scott,  who  sang  of  the  glories  of  his  clan ;  John 
Scott  the  Lamiter,  or  cripple ;  and  William  the  Bolt- 
foot,  who  left  his  deformity  to  Sir  Walter. 

Beardie  himself  has  handed  down  to  his  descendants, 
as  a  specimen  of  his  Latin  poet-craft,  a  convivial  chorus, 
which,  translated,  is,  — 

**  The  beard  shall  grow,  the  beard  shall  grow 
Until  the  thistle  again  shall  blow." 

In  strong  contrast  to  these  bold  Borderers  and  min- 
strels of  Clan  Scott  another  of  Sir  Walter's  race  is  pic- 
tured by  his  biographer:  a  serene  old  man  of  ninety, 
who  rises  to  welcome  his  now  illustrious  nephew;  tall 
and  erect  he  is,  with  long  flowing  hair,  whitened  like 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  351 

silver.  Kiss  Lug  Walter  on  both  cheeks,  he  heartily  ex- 
claims :  "  God  bless  thee,  Walter,  my  man !  thou  hast 
risen  to  be  great,  but  thou  wert  always  good."  The 
father  of  the  poet,  a  writer  to  the  signet,  is  said  to 
have  been  the  first  of  his  lineage  who  was  not  soldier, 
sailor,  or  moss-trooper. 

Walter  Scott,  when  a  child  of  eight  summers,  was 
found  on  recovery  from  a  fever  to  have  lost  the  use  of 
his  right  leg.  Quacks  and  regular  physicians  were  aUke 
unsuccessful  in  their  attempts  to  restore  to  the  infant  poet 
his  power  of  locomotion ;  but  what  the  doctors  failed  to 
do,  outdoor  life  and  his  own  impatient  desires  effected ; 
and  after  a  time  he  began  to  stand  a  little,  and  by  and 
by  to  walk  and  run,  after  a  lame  fashion. 

He  passes  an  independent  child-life,  by  sea-side  or 
among  the  heather,  and  is  at  length  promoted  from  the 
old  corn-baillie's  shoulder  to  a  Shetland  pony  of  his  own. 
Thus  the  time  wears  on  till  the  lame  boy  is  sent  to 
school.  In  the  Edinburgh  High  School  he  is  more  dis- 
tinguished in  the  yards  than  in  the  class ;  for  with  that 
resolute  will  which  served  him  so  well  in  harder  pulls, 
he  has  struggled  with  his  natural  infirmity  until  he  can 
run,  jump,  and  "  climb  the  kittle  nine  stanes  "  with  an}'- 
body.  He  is  rather  behind  his  class,  both  in  years  and 
progress,  and  he  loves  "better  than  lear"  to  lie  under 
a  high  hill  of  leaves  in  the  garden,  reading  "  Ossian," 
Percy's  "  Reliques,"  and  Spenser's  "  Faery  Queen." 

One  of  his  school-fellows  long  remembers  how  he  al- 
ways got  through  his  task  first,  and  then,  true  to  his 
inborn  vocation,  would  whisper,  "  Come,  slink  over  be- 
side me,  Jamie,  and  I  '11  tell  3^ou  a  story."  At  thirteen 
he  is  sent  to  the  university.  Having  but  "  little  Latin," 
he  resolves  to  have  "less  Greek,"  and  is  here  known  as 
the  "  Greek  blockhead."    A  severe  and  dangerous  ill- 


352       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


ness  intervenes,  and  on  returning  to  the  university,  be 
is  found  to  have  forgotten  the  very  letters  of  the  Greek 
alphabet.  Of  old  ballads  he  knows  a  good  stock,  and 
has  already  been  famous  for  his  metrical  translations  at 
the  High  School.  He  confesses  to  a  dislike  to  Latin, 
simply  because  it  is  classical,  but  having  several  favor- 
ite authors  in  this  tongue,  keeps  up  his  knowledge  of 
it,  and  can  always  read  it  sufficiently  well.  The  lan- 
guages of  his  beloved  poets  and  romancers  —  French, 
Spanish,  and  Italian  —  he  reads  with  facility,  but  never 
speaks  them.  Later  in  life  he  learns  some  German, 
but  at  all  times  his  chief  studies  are  in  English.  In 
1786  he  is  apprenticed  to  his  father's  profession.  It  is 
dry  work ;  but  whatever  is  to  be  done,  reading,  copying, 
going  about,  he  does  it  with  diligence.  His  miscella- 
neous readings  exhaust  the  circulating  librar}-,  and  he  is 
continually  amassing  new  information  of  every  kind. 

He  loves  well  to  be  with  wood,  water,  and  wilderness. 
All  his  holidays  are  spent  in  walking ;  and  his  good  father 
sa3^s,  "  Surely,  he  was  born  to  be  a  pedlar."  "  I  only 
wish,"  responds  the  son,  "  that  I  were  as  good  a  player 
on  the  flute  as  poor  George  Primrose,  in  the  '  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  ;  *  if  I  had  his  art,  I  should  like  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  tramp  about  from  cottage  to  cottage."  "  I 
doubt,"  says  the  grave,  prosaic  father,  —  ''  I  greatly 
doubt,  sir,  ye  were  born  for  nae  better  than  a  gangrel 
scraper." 

In  1792  the  poet  puts  on  the  advocate's  robe.  In 
his  vacations,  during  seven  successive  years,  the  young 
lawyer  makes  *'  raids,"  as  he  calls  them,  into  Liddes- 
dale,  where  the  rude,  clannish  people,  still  cleaving  to 
the  customs  of  their  forefathers,  have  stores  of  moss- 
trooping  legends.  Here,  at  farm-house,  manse,  and  cot- 
tage, he  gathers  old  ballads,  old  tunes,  and  — 


CAMPBELL  AND   SCOTT.  353 

**  A  fouth  of  auld  nicknackets, 
Rusty  aim  caps  and  jinglin  jackets,"  — 

*'  treasures,*'  saj's  his  biographer,  "  for  which  he  would 
have  renounced  the  lord  chief -justiceship,  had  it  been 
offered  him."  ''  He  was  makin  himsel  a'  the  time,"  says 
his  shrewd  Scotch  guide  in  these  excursions;  "but  he 
didna  ken  ma3'be  what  he  was  about  until  3'ears  had 
passed."  In  1796  appears  his  first  publication,  ''Lenore" 
and  the  '*  Wild  Huntsman,"  translated  from  the  German 
of  Burger.  "  Upon  my  word,"  exclaims  one  of  his  lady 
friends,  '*  Walter  Scott  is  going  to  tuni  out  a  poet!" 
' '  Lenore  "  is  coldly  received,  but  he  determines  to  go 
on  in  spite  of  it. 

At  twenty-six  the  poet  is  "  sair  beside  himself"  for  Miss 
Charlotte  Parker.  The  lady  is  of  French  parentage,  and 
very  lovely  and  lovable,  though  not  his  first  love.  He 
woos  and  wins  her,  and  she  is  his  true  and  faithful  wife  for 
many  long  years.  The  same  year,  having  been  appointed 
sheriff  of  Selkirkshire,  Scott  is  enabled  to  quit  the  drudgery 
of  his  profession,  of  which  he  says,  after  the  manner  of 
Slender  in  his  wooing  of  Ann  Page,  '*  There  was  no  great 
love  between  us  in  the  beginning,  and  it  pleased  Heaven  to 
decrease  it  on  further  acquaintance."  Three  3'ears  go  by, 
and  then  the  first  and  second  volumes  of  the  "Minstrelsy 
of  the  Scottish  Border  "  make  their  appearance.  They  are 
well  received,  and  in  the  ensuing  year  the  last  volume  is 
published.  In  1805  appears  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel ; "  it  is  enthusiastically  received.  And  now,  under 
the  tall  old  trees  by  the  Tweed-side,  or  wandering  away 
along  the  wilderness  through  which  the  Yarrow  creeps 
from  her  fountains,  pacing  his  good  black  steed  up  and 
down  the  sands,  to  the  "slow  song  of  the  sea,"  or  gal- 
loping over  brake,  bush,  and  scar,  reckless  as  his  own 


354       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


Lochinvar,  the  poet  weaves  his  finest  web  of  song,  — 
"  Marmion,"  the  most  magnificent  of  his  chivalrous  tales. 

In  1810  the  ''  Lady  of  the  Lake"  sails  forth  in  hand- 
some quarto,  at  two  guineas  per  copy,  and  sets  the  good 
people  "  clean  daft."  The  whole  country  rings  with  the 
praises  of  the  poet.  Everj^  eligible  house  and  every  inn  in 
the  neighborhood  is  crowded  with  visitors,  come  to  view 
the  scenery  of  Loch  Katrine ;  and  long  after,  an  old  woman, 
keeping  an  inn  at  Glenross,  who,  poor  soul !  has  but  little 
custom,  begs  "  the  gentleman  who  had  written  a  bonnie 
book  about  Loch  Katrine,  which  had  done  the  inn  a  muckle 
deal  of  good,  to  write  a  little  about  their  lake  also."  ''  The 
Vision  of  Don  Roderick,"  "  Rokeby,"  "  The  Bridal  of 
Triermain,"  '*  The  Lord  of  the  Isles,"  *'  The  Field  of 
Waterloo,"  and  *'  Harold  the  Dauntless,"  are  successively 
published. 

And  now  Byron  appears.  The  world,  having  a  new  idol, 
becomes  wear}-  of  the  old ;  and,  moreover,  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged that  at  the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake"  Scott's  poeti- 
cal splendor  had  reached  its  maximum.  Nothing  equal  to 
that  bewitching  idyl  ever  after  appeared  from  his  pen. 
Dauntless  and  intrepid  under  this  reverse,  the  poet  falls 
back  on  his  reserved  force ;  and  for  seventeen  years  he 
pours  forth  those  varied  creations  in  prose  upon  which 
the  world  still  hangs  enchanted. 

He  works  diligently  this  golden  mine  which  he  has  dis- 
covered. He  wins  honors  and  praise  of  men,  a  baronetc}^ 
broad  acres,  and  a  baronial  residence  ;  princes,  peers,  and 
poets,  men  of  all  ranks  and  grades,  it  delighteth  to  honor 
him.  His  mornings  are  devoted  to  composition,  and  the 
rest  of  the  day  is  given  to  riding  among  his  plantations 
and  entertaining  his  guests  and  family.  And  all  this  is  the 
result  of  his  pen !  Never  before  had  literature  been  such 
a  genie  of  the  lamp  to  her  votary  !    Who  would  not  gladly 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  855 

drop  the  curtain  before  this  fair  picture,  and  close  the  scene 
while  all  is  bright  and  lovel}^?  But,  alas  !  beside  it  another 
picture  hangs  before  the  world,  —  a  bowed  and  weary 
man,  his  private  affairs  in  ruin,  the  wife  of  his  youth  laid 
low  in  the  kirkyard,  broken  in  health  and  spirits,  yet 
sturdily  maintaining  his  integrity,  and  undertaking  to  liqui- 
date by  intellectual  labors  alone  a  debt  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  pounds  !  In  four  years  he  has  real- 
ized for  his  creditors  no  less  than  seventy  thousand  !  The 
■world  cheers  him  on,  and  he  shrinks  not  from  his  gigantic, 
self-imposed  task,  till  in  the  struggle  the  strong  man  suc- 
cumbs at  last.  He  has  given  his  life  to  maintain  his  honor ! 
A  helpless  and  almost  unconscious  wreck,  he  lingers  on. 
He  tries  to  write,  but  his  fingers  will  not  close  upon  the 
pen  ;  the  magician's  hand  is  powerless  ;  and  sinking  back 
in  his  chair,  the  big  tears  roll  fast  and  heavy  down  his 
cheeks.  *'  Get  me  to  bed,  friends,"  he  murmurs,  —  "  get 
me  to  bed,  that 's  the  only  place  for  me  now."  Gradually 
he  declines  ;  his  mind  wanders,  —  old  fancies  are  with  him. 
Sometimes  he  mutters  words  of  comfort  from  the  Bible  or 
the  Prayer-Book,  —  old  Scottish  Psalms  or  bits  of  fine  old 
Catholic  h}Tnns ;  and  often,  from  those  fading  lips  that 
long  ago  had  chanted  the  old  Border-songs,  loving  watch- 
ers hear  in  solemn  cadence  the  grand  Dies  Irae,  — 

"  Broken-hearted,  lone,  and  tearful, 
By  that  cross  of  anguish  fearful, 
Stood  the  mother  by  her  son." 

And  now  the  flame  in  the  expiring  lamp  burns  bright 
and  clear,  and  the  unclouded  reason  returns  for  the  sol- 
emn adieus  to  earth.  True  to  his  own  kindlj'  nature, 
he  will  have  only  one  called  from  sleep  to  receive  these, 
his  parting  words,  —  they  should  be  written  in  letters  of 
gold,  —  ''I  may  have  but  a  moment  to  speak  to  you. 


356       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

My  dear,  be  a  good  man ;  be  viii-uous  ;  be  religious.  Be 
a  good  man.  Nothing  else  will  give  you  anj^  comfort 
when  3'ou  come  to  lie  here.  God  bless  you  all !  "  Again 
he  becomes  unconscious ;  and  at  noondaj',  on  the  21st  of 
September,  1832,  the  soft  autumnal  breeze  sighed  amid 
the  foliage  of  Abbotsford ;  the  Tweed  rippled  on  its 
silvery  way ;  and  the  warm  sun,  riding  proudly  in  the 
zenith,  shone  as  in  mockery  through  the  open  window, 
where  slowly  and  gently,  "  in  God's  own  calm,"  a 
great  sun  was  setting.  When  all  was  over,  mourning 
children  knelt  beside  his  couch,  and  kissed  into  eternal 
rest  the  dear  dead  eyes  that  had  of  late  known  many 
tears.  Old  servants,  sobbing  as  they  went,  carried  the 
kind  master  to  the  waiting  hearse  ;  children  and  kinsmen 
bore  the  pall ;  and  thousands  upon  thousands  watched 
with  uncovered  heads  the  mournful  procession.  Thus 
they  bore  him  to  Dryburgh,  and  laid  him  beside  his 
fathers,  —  the  rarest  genius  in  his  art  that  all-creating 
Nature  ever  shaped;  the  kindliest,  truest  heart;  the 
manliest  knight  and  high-souled  gentleman  that  ever 
trod  on  Scottish  heather! 

Walter  Scott,  by  birth,  education,  and  natural  bias, 
was  a  high  Tory.  Let  it  be  his  excuse  that  he  was 
born  in  a  country  where  reverence  for  gentle  blood  is 
a  religion.  He  came  of  an  ancient  equestrian  race,  to 
which  clanship  was  as  strong  a  feeling  as  fiHal  affection 
and  love  of  native  land.  By  ties  of  blood  he  wa,s  con- 
nected with  the  feudal  heads  of  his  name. 

It  was  the  innate  disposition  of  his  imagination  to  live 
in  the  past  rather  than  in  the  future.  Visions  of  the  ba- 
ronial castle,  the  court  and  camp,  the  wild  Highland  chase, 
feud  and  fora}',  the  antique  blazonry  and  institutions  of 
feudalism,  heroic  action,  romantic  tenderness,  —  all  made 
fair   and   hoi}"  by  thoughtful  reverence  for  the  past,  — 


CAMPBELL  AND   SCOTT.  357 

floated  forever  in  splendid  pageantrj^  through  the  cham- 
bers of  his  brain,  mingled  ever  with  the  regretful  conscious- 
ness that  before  the  wave  of  democratic  equality  these 
goodlj'  things  were  slowl}'  but  inevitabl}'  being  swept  awa}-. 
To  paint  these  olden  glories  in  which  his  imagination  de- 
lighted to  revel  became  his  self-elected  mission.  All  that 
would  have  shocked  and  revolted  our  modern  humanity 
w^as  toned  down  by  his  idealism,  or  put  altogether  out 
of  sight;  while  the  devotion  of  his  heroes,  their  noble 
valor  and  godlike  strength  of  purpose,  were  brought 
into  boldest  relief. 

"We  ma}^  not  accept  the  questionable  logic  that  affirms 
a  man  to  be  altogether  right  when  he  is  simply  consistent 
with  himself ;  3'et  surely  we  cannot  withhold  our  cordial 
approbation  of  that  noble  manhood  that,  having  erected 
these  things  into  principles  and  opinions,  honestly  and 
earnestly  upheld  them  through  a  long  and  comparatively 
blameless  life,  —  giving  abundantly  of  his  time,  means,  and 
intellect  for  the  support  of  opinions  by  which  he  could 
gain  no  temporal  advantage,  and  which,  indeed,  brought 
upon  his  gra}-  hairs  the  only  indignity  his  fond  countr3*- 
men  ever  offered  to  that  brave  old  Scottish  knight,  whose 
heart  was  wide  enough  to  hold  his  neighbor,  his  countrj', 
and  his  king ;  and  who,  courted  and  caressed  in  many 
lands,  could  still  cling  to  his  own  "honest  gra}^  hills," 
and  say,  "  If  I  did  not  see  the  heather  at  least  once  a 
3'ear,  I  think  I  should  die." 

The  enemies  of  Scott  have  accused  him  of  fondness  for 
broad  acres  and  over-much  love  of  rank  and  titles.  If 
the  first  be  a  weakness,  it  was  blamelessl}'  shared  by  an- 
other great  and  well-beloved  poet:  Shakespeare  retired 
early  with  his  gains,  and  purchasing  an  estate,  became 
a  rural  squire.  If  his  love  of  wealth  is  proven  by  his 
unremitting  toil  to  obtain  it,  let  it  be  remembered  that 


358  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

no  questionable  commercial  shift,  no  untrue  word,  or 
mean  and  sordid  action,  ever  put  a  farthing  into  his 
coffers ;  and  if  abundantlj-  he  gathered  golden  grain,  he 
let  fall  as  abundantly  for  the  gleaners.  Among  his  dis- 
tressed friends,  disabled  scholars,  indigent  authors,  and 
Christ's  humble  poor,  he  scattered  of  his  harvest  with  no 
niggard  hand.  His  seeming  idolatry  of  rank  was  but 
inborn  reverence  for  gentle  blood.  A  title  to  him  was 
not  an  empt}^  name ;  it  was  the  sj^mbol  and  sign-manunl 
of  ancient  name  and  lineage,  the  heirloom  of  heroic 
deeds.  **He  had,"  says  his  biographer,  "more  respect 
for  the  impoverished  chief  of  four  or  five  thousand  kirtled 
mountaineers  than  the  mightiest  magnate  of  the  land 
that  ever  wore  orders  and  honors  without  an  historical 
name." 

The  great  intellectual  strength  of  Scott  lay  in  the  pro- 
lific richness  of  his  fanc}',  that  from  the  most  minute  and 
barren  antiquarian  details  could  arrange  the  most  stirring 
scenes  and  adventures  and  the  most  romantic  poetical 
narrative ;  and  in  the  abundant  stores  of  his  memory, 
that  could  collect  and  retain  a  load  of  fact  and  incident 
that  would  have  staggered  old  Atlas  himself;  and  an 
unwearied  creative  energy,  that  could  reanimate  and  en- 
kindle all  with  a  power  and  vividness  unknown  since  the 
da3*s  of  Homer.  His  genius  was  eminently  a  narrative 
genius,  and  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  he  groups  and  de- 
scribes with  irresistible  and  ever-charming  effect. 

A  distinguishing  feature  of  Scott  is  the  perfect  trans- 
parency of  his  style.  In  expression,  sentiment,  and  de- 
scription he  is  so  simple  and  direct  that  ' '  he  who  runs 
may  read."  His  diction  is  not  obscured  by  a  dim  and  ob- 
solete phraseology ;  his  meaning  is  not  entangled  among 
riddling  conceits  ;  nor  is  his  thought  enveloped  in  a  haze 
of  mysticism  that  only  the  initiated  can  hope  to  penetrate. 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  359 

In  the  present  age  the  tide  of  popularity  sets  toward 
poets  who  (in  the  words  of  quaint  old  Wilson)  "delight 
much  in  their  own  darkness,  especiallj^  when  none  can 
understand  what  they  do  say."  Perspicuity  is  conse- 
quently held  cheap.  Nevertheless,  it  has  its  sterling 
value ;  and  some  of  us  are  still  old-fashioned  enough  to 
get  our  conundrums  legitimately  —  from  our  riddle-books 
—  in  preference  to  making  guess-work  of  our  poems. 

In  diction  Scott  is  careless  and  incorrect;  he  looked 
only  at  broad  and  general  effect.  Making  pictures  with 
his  words,  rather  than  melody,  he  could  perhaps  afford  to 
dispense  in  some  degree  with  that  finish  so  highly  prized 
by  less  graphic  and  creative  poets.  In  description  he  is 
various,  powerful,  and  picturesque.  In  narrative  he  is 
'perfection  itself.  We  cannot  claim  for  him  profound 
depth  and  intensity  of  feeling.  Whatever  is  visible  and 
tangible  he  has  mastered ;  below  the  surface  he  has  less 
power.  His  intellect,  potent  as  it  was,  never  went  out 
of  sight  of  the  material,  —  "never,"  as  Carljle  would 
express  it,  "  groped  among  the  eternal  abysses  of  things." 
Experiences  were  infinitely  more  to  him  than  speculations, 
and  within  the  whole  circumference  of  his  giant  brain 
there  was  not  enough  transcendentalism  to  make  a  single 
immortal  thought  of  Emerson.  Neither  was  the  language 
of  the  heart  his  familiar  study ;  the  passions  do  not  obey 
his  call,  as  with  Shakespeare. 

He  gives  us  rare  specimens  of  moral  painting  ;  as  in  the 
knightly  grace  of  Fitz-James,  the  rugged  virtues  and  sav- 
age death  of  Roderick  Dhu,  the  remorse  of  Marmion, 
and  the  sin  and  suffering  of  Constance.  Nothing  could 
more  vividly  and  distinctly  exhibit  the  contrasted  effect 
of  passion  and  situation.  Yet  fine  as  these  pictures  are, 
the  force  lies  in  the  situation,  not  in  the  thought  and 
expression.     There  are  no  immortal  words,  no  talismanic 


360  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

sentences,  that  by  right  divine  go  down  the  ages  "  un- 
dimmed,  alone,  and  forever." 

Yet  all  these  defects  are  nobl}^  redeemed  by  that  ele- 
ment of  intense  life  which  is  never  wanting  in  his  verse. 
This  animation,  fervor,  enthusiasm,  and  earnestness,  this 
strong  athletic  life  engendered  in  Scott  by  that  dash  of  wild 
Border  blood  from  the  old  moss-trooping  ancestry,  goes 
tingling  hotly  through  his  veins,  and  infusing  itself  into 
all  his  poems,  colors  them  with  the  heartj"  joyousness  of 
a  healthy  manhood,  —  a  manhood  in  which  ph3'sical  and 
intellectual  culture,  like  "mercy  and  truth,  have  met  to- 
gether/' and,  like  "  righteousness  and  peace,  have  kissed 
each  other."  This  it  was,  above  all  else,  that  took  the 
public  admiration  by  storm,  carrying  men  onward  with  an 
excitement  of  heart  as  well  as  of  head,  which  thej-  had 
never  before  experienced  in  the  perusal  of  modern  poetry, 
which  had  chieflj',  and  too  often  exclusively',  aimed  at 
critical  gratification  rather  than  emotional.  Here  were 
poems  all  glowing  and  alive,  uniting  the  interest  and  ex- 
citement of  a  novel  with  the  subtler  charm  of  verse. 

Scott's  first  original  poem,  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel," was  published  when  the  author,  at  thirty-four,  had 
arrived  at  the  maturity  of  his  powers.  No  living  man  was 
so  well  fitted  b}'  information  on  this  subject  to  write  this 
tale.  Border  story  and  romance  had  been  the  study  and 
passion  of  his  life.  The  "  Lay  "  is  a  story  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  related  by  a  Border  minstrel,  the  last  of  his  race. 
All  the  characters  are  finely  drawn  ;  the  graj'-beard  harper, 
the  moss-trooper,  the  coarse  Border  chief,  and  the  ''  ladye 
high,"  are  equally  vigorous  portraits,  and  grouped  with 
the  feudal  accessories  of  the  piece,  make  of  the  olden 
time  — 


'  A  picture  rich  and  rare 
Hanging  in  the  shadowy  air  '* :  — 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  361 

**  The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  minstrel  was  infirm  and  old  ; 
His  withered  cheek  and  tresses  gray 
Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day ; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he, 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry. 
For,  well-a-day !  their  date  was  fled. 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead  ; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed, 
Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 
No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne. 
He  carolled,  light  as  lark  at  morn ; 
No  longer  courted  and  caressed, 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest. 
He  poured,  to  lord  and  lady  gay. 
The  unpremeditated  lay : 
Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone ; 
A  stranger  filled  the  Stuart's  throne ; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wandering  harper,  scorned  and  poor, 
He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door, 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear. 
The  harp  a  king  had  loved  to  hear." 

"  Marmion,"  a  tale  of  Flodden  Field,  is  undoubtedly 
Scott's  greatest  poem.  If  it  does  not  possess  the  unity 
of  the  ''  Lay,"  it  has  more  striking  beauties,  and  also 
greater  faults.  It  was  received  with  instant  enthusiasm 
by  the  world.  Jeffrey  slashed  at  it  in  the  *' Review;" 
but  Scott,  sufficiently  consoled  by  the  applause  of  better 
men,  only  revenged  himself  b}'  asking  the  pugnacious  critic 
to  dinner,  and  treating  him  in  his  usual  kind-hearted  man- 
ner. In  *'Marmion"  feudal  times  and  manners  are  in- 
imitabh^  painted.  B3'  an  oversight,  which  the  author  soon 
saw  and  regretted,  the  harmonj*  of  the  conception  is  some- 
what marred.    The  hero  is  made  to  commit  the  crime  of 


362  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

forgery,  —  a  crime  unsuited  to  a  chivalrous  and  half  civil- 
ized age.  The  death  of  Marmion  and  the  battle  of 
Flodden  are  the  finest  specimens  of  Scott's  inimitable 
descriptive  power.  '*  Of  all  the  poetical  battles  which 
have  been  fought  from  the  daj's  of  Homer,"  says  an 
eloquent  critic,  "  there  is  none  comparable  for  interest 
and  animation,  for  breadth  of  drawing  and  magnificence 
of  eflTect,  with  this,"  — 

**  Of  the  stern  strife,  and  carnage  drear 
Of  Flodden's  fatal  field, 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear. 
And  broken  was  her  shield !  " 

As  a  scene  of  tragic  wildness  and  terror,  the  trial  of 
Constance  De  Beverly  is  unsurpassed.  This  picture  is 
drawn  with  the  skill  of  the  true  artist. 

•*  Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied ; 
The  cloak  and  doublet  loosely  tied, 
Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 
Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew ; 

And,  on  her  doublet  breast, 
She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue. 

Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But,  at  the  Prioress'  command, 
A  monk  undid  the  silken  band, 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair. 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head. 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread. 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  De  Beverly  they  know. 
Sister  professed  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  church  numbered  with  the  dead. 
For  broken  vows,  and  convent  fled. 


Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye. 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy. 

And  there  she  stood,  so  calm  and  pale. 


CAMPBELL  AND   SCOTT.  363 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 
And  motion  slight,  of  eye  and  head. 
And  of  her  bosom,  warranted 
That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks, 
You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax. 
Wrought  to  the  very  life,  was  there ; 
So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair." 

"  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  is  perhaps  more  widelj^  pop- 
ular than  either  "  Marmion  "  or  the  *'  Lay."  It  has  more 
domestic  interest  than  "Marmion,"  is  more  regular  a;id 
interesting  in  plot,  and  more  richly  picturesque,  than  any 
of  Scott's  poems. 

This  picture  of  Malise  bearing  the  fiery  cross,  is  inimi- 
table word-painting :  — 

"  Then  Roderick  with  impatient  look 
From  Brian's  hand  the  symbol  took  : 
'  Speed,  Malise,  speed ! '  he  said,  and  gave 
The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave. 
*  The  muster-place  be  Lanrick  mead  — 
Instant  the  time  —  speed,  Malise,  speed !  * 
Like  heath-bird  when  the  hawks  pursue 
A  barge  across  Loch  Katrine  flew ; 
High  stood  the  henchman  on  the  prow ; 
So  rapidly  the  bargemen  row. 
The  bubbles,  where  they  launched  the  boat, 
"Were  all  unbroken  and  afloat. 
Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  still 
When  it  had  neared  the  mainland  hill ; 
And  from  the  silver  beach's  side 
Still  was  the  prow  three  fathoms  wide. 
When  lightly  bounded  to  the  land 
The  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 

"Speed,  Malise,  speed !  the  dun  deer's  hide 
On  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied. 
Speed,  Malise,  speed  !     Such  cause  of  haste 
Thine  active  sinews  never  braced. 


364  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Bend  'gainst  the  steepy  hill  thy  breast, 

Burst  down  like  torrent  from  its  crest ; 

With  short  and  springing  footstep  pass 

The  trembling  bog,  and  false  morass  ; 

Across  the  brook  like  roebuck  bound, 

And  thread  the  brake  like  questing  hound ; 

The  crag  is  high,  the  scar  is  deep. 

Yet  shrink  not  from  the  desperate  leap : 

Parched  are  thy  burning  lips  and  brow. 

Yet  by  the  fountain  pause  not  now  ; 

Herald  of  battle,  fate,  and  fear, 

Stretch  onward  in  thy  fleet  career  ! 

The  wounded  hind  thou  track'st  not  now ; 

Pursuest  not  maid  through  greenwood  bough, 

Nor  pliest  thou  now  thy  flying  pace 

With  rivals  in  the  mountain  race  ; 

But  danger,  death,  and  warrior  deed, 

Are  in  thy  course ;  speed,  Malise,  speed  ! 

Past  as  the  fatal  symbol  flies, 

In  arms  the  huts  and  hamlets  rise ; 

From  winding  glen,  from  upland  brown. 

They  poured  each  hardy  tenant  down. 

Nor  slacked  the  messenger  his  pace  ; 

He  showed  the  sign,  he  named  the  place, 

And  pressing  forward  like  the  wind. 

Left  clamor  and  surprise  behind." 

The  funeral  wail  of  Duncan  is  finel}^  conceived  and  exe- 
cuted. Reading  it,  one  can  fancy  the  dead  warrior  on  his 
torch-lit  bier,  and  can  hear  "  the  funeral  3'ell,  the  female 
wail,"  toned  down  to  this  sad,  sweet  rhythm. 

"  He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest. 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering. 

To  Duncan  no  morrow ! 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  365 

"  The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary. 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest. 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

"  Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever  !  " 

In  "Rokeby"  —  a  tale  of  the  English  Cavaliers  and 
Roundheads  —  Scott  has  his  foot  off  his  native  heather ; 
and  though  the  poem  displays  the  utmost  art  and  power  in 
the  delineation  of  character  and  passion,  it  is  considered  a 
failure.  "  Don  Roderick,"  "  Harold,"  and  "  Triermain,"  have 
no  higher  degree  of  merit.  "  Bannockburn,"  as  a  tale, 
has  little  of  sustained  interest.  Its  chief  excellence  con- 
sists in  the  truth  and  beaut}"  of  the  descriptive  passages 
of  the  poem.  ''The  Lord  of  the  Isles"  —  a  Scottish 
story  of  the  days  of  Bruce  —  has  more  of  Scott's  char- 
acteristic fire  and  animation.  In  childhood,  3'outh,  and 
early  manhood,  the  old  ballad  songs  were  to  AValter  Scott 
'*  meat  and  drink."  Before  he  Was  ten  years  old  he  had 
collected  and  bound  up  several  volumes  of  them.  His 
genius,  indeed,  has  some  points  of  resemblance  to  that  of 
the  old  ballad-makers  themselves,  who  simply  give  the 
words  and  actions  of  their  heroes  and  heroines,  and  never 
venture  to  analyze  motive  or  character.  In  his  l^Tics  he 
is  gay,  arch,  tender,  warlike,  or  romantic ;  and  all  bear 


366       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

evidence  of  that  spontaneity  which  also  characterizes  the 
old  songs.  It  has  been  happily  observed  that  "  there  are 
lyrics  that,  however  polished  and  fine,  seem  to  have  been 
made  piecemeal,  like  the  Coral  Islands."  Scott's  are 
emitted  rather  than  shaped,  and  given  free  and  eas}',  — 
as  the  author  should  say,  "  Take  it,  and  welcome  ;  there's 
plenty  more  where  this  came  from." 

The  best  known,  and  perhaps  the  best,  is  "  Young 
Lochinvar,"  from  ''Marmion;"  '*  Hail  to  the  Chief," 
from  the  '*  Lady  of  the  Lake."  is  almost  equally  good  ; 
and  "  Pibroch  of  Donald  Dhu  "  no  mortal  but  Scott  could 
have  written.  In  another  and  less  characteristic  st^^le  is 
this  dainty  serenade  of  Minna  Troll's  pirate  lover: 

"  Love  wakes  and  weeps, 

While  beauty  sleeps ! 
O  for  music's  softest  numbers, 

To  prompt  a  theme 

For  beauty's  dream 
Soft  as  the  pillow  of  her  slumbers ! 

"  Through  groves  of  palm 

Sigh  gales  of  balm ; 
Fireflies  on  the  air  are  wheeling, 

While  through  the  gloom 

Comes  soft  perfume. 
The  distant  beds  of  flowers  revealing. 

"  O  wake  and  live ! 

No  dreams  can  give 
A  shadowed  bliss  the  real  excelling ; 

No  longer  sleep. 

From  lattice  peep, 
And  list  the  tale  that  love  is  telling !  " 

From  poetr}^  Scott  retreated  into  the  wider  field  of  prose 
fiction.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  there  he  takes  his  undis- 
puted seat  among  the  masters  of  the  art,  both  British  and 


CAMPBELL  AND  SCOTT.  367 

foreign.  Modern  criticism,  it  is  true,  has  gone  so  far  as 
to  assert  of  Walter  Scott's  novels  that  on  account  of  their 
conspicuous  high  Toryism,  their  frequent  divergence 
from  historical  fact,  and  their  extreme  romanticism,  they 
are  unsafe  reading  for  the  rising  generation.  However 
this  may  be,  it  is  safe  to  conclude  that  the  "Wizard 
of  the  North"  will  still  continue  to  charm  and  elevate 
mankind. 


368       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  XYII. 

BYRON  AND  MOORE. 

IN  the  epoch  under  consideration  Byron  and  Moore  alone 
may  be  especiallj"  designated  as  poets  of  the  passions. 
Byron,  at  least,  is  eminently  so ;  singing,  as  he  did,  from 
a  law  and  necessity  of  his  nature,  he  dared  the  heaven- 
reaching  heights,  which  to  Moore  were  unattainable.  Yet 
Moore,  on  feebler  wing,  has  soared  high  enough  to  warble 
catches  of  melody  graceful  and  tender  as  the  singing  of 
birds,  —  strains  which  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die. 
Moore's  friendship  for  Byron  appears  to  have  been  sin- 
cere and  lasting ;  and  though  sneering  at  "  little  Tommj-'s 
love  of  lords,'*  Byron  honored  him  with  the  gift  of  his 
personal  memoirs,  intended  for  publication,  but  generouslj- 
withdrawn  from  the  press  by  Moore  at  the  request  of 
the  family  of  Byron,  though  "  Little  Tommy"  sustained 
thereby  a  loss  of  two  thousand  guineas  which  Murray  had 
paid  him  for  the  manuscript. 

Thomas  Moore  was  a  native  of  Dublin,  and  born  in 
1779.  At  fourteen  he  commenced  rhyming.  In  1793  he 
was  sent  to  the  university,  where  he  distinguished  himself 
by  his  classical  acquirements,  and  at  nineteen  proceeded  to 
London  to  study  law.  Moore's  life  affords  little  matter 
of  deep  interest ;  for  the  most  part,  it  was  sunny  as  his 
poetry  and  bright  and  gay  as  his  wit.  The  poet  was  of 
humble  and  unpromising  birth,  his  father  being  but  a  re- 
spectable  grocer  and  liquor-dealer,  and  a  strict  Roman 


BYRON  AND  MOORE.  369 

Catholic  at  a  time  when  that  faith  was  comparatively 
under  ban  in  Great  Britain.  He  owes  to  great  talent, 
industriousU^  cultivated  and  exercised,  to  tact,  prudence, 
and  a  genial  nature,  that  personal  popularity  which  won 
the  hearts  of  his  admiring  country-men,  and  the  smiles 
and  patronage  of  the  English  aristocrac3\ 

Leigh  Hunt  gives  us  this  graphic  personal  description 
of  the  little  Irish  poet :  — 

*'  His  forehead  is  bony  and  full  of  character,  with  bumps  of 
wit  large  enough  to  transport  a  phrenologist;  his  eyes  are  as 
dark  and  fine  as  you  would  wish  to  see  under  a  set  of  vine- 
leaves;  his  mouth,  generous  and  good-humored,  with  dimples; 
his  nose,  sensual  and  prominent,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
reverse  of  aquiline,  —  there  is  a  very  peculiar  characteristic  in 
it,  as  if  it  were  looking  forward  to  and  scenting  an  orchard. 

"  The  face,  upon  the  whole,  is  Irish,  not  unruffled  by  care 
and  passion,  but  festivity  is  the  predominant  expression.  His 
talk  is  full  of  the  wish  to  please  and  be  pleased." 

Moore  passed  pleasantly  through  this  varying  world; 
a  few  shadows,  such  as  come  to  all,  of  sickness  and 
death,  darkened  the  evening  of  his  life.  His  slips  of  the 
pen  seem  not,  like  those  of  Byron,  to  have  been  parallel 
to  slips  in  his  life.  He  was  a  faithful  and  devoted  hus- 
band, a  true  and  loving  son ;  and  though  like  a  roving 
butterfl}^  ' '  in  search  of  delight,  grazing  all  sweets  with  his 
wing,"  he  turned  ever  to  home  for  his  love  and  his  rest. 

Moore's  poetry  is  perhaps  more  generally-  known  than 
that  of  any  of  his  cotemporaries.  "  Lalla  Rookh,'*  his 
brilliant  Oriental  poem,  is  in  the  hands  of  all  readers  of 
poetry.  Of  the  four  tales  comprised  in  the  poem,  "The 
Fire  Worshippers "  is  the  finest.  "  Paradise  and  the 
Peri,"  having  the  grace  of  moral  sentiment  superadded 
to  the  charm  of  brilliant  imagery  and  ornament,  is  most 
frequently  read  and  remembered.     "The  Veiled  Prophet 

24 


370       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

of  Khorassan"  possesses  great  energy  and  power,  but  is 
somewhat  marred  b}-  the  extravagance  and  improbabilitj' 
of  the  fiction.  "  The  P'east  of  Roses  "  is  sweet  as  a  love- 
tale,  told  in  flowers.  Before  the  commencement  of  the  work 
the  publisher  agreed  to  pay  Moore  three  thousand  guineas 
for  the  copyright  of  "  Lalla  Rookh  ; "  Hazlitt  says  he 
should  not  have  written  it  even  for  that  sum.  The  poet 
devoted  three  years  of  painstaking  labor  to  this  poem. 

As  the  work  was  to  be  an  Eastern  tale  in  verse,  though 
the  subject  had  not  been  settled,  it  was  Moore's  first  aim 
to  work  himself  up  into  a  proper  Oriental  frame  of  mind,  — 
an  easy  thing  to  accomplish  amid  bulbuls  and  roses,  tessel- 
lated floors,  fragrant  cassolets,  scented  fountains,  and  am- 
brosial airs,  but  no  mean  task  among  the  fogs  and  snows 
of  an  English  atmosphere  ;  yet  how  admirably  he  at  length 
succeeded,  the  poem  itself  shows.  *' Lalla  Rookh"  can- 
not be  called  a  great  poem  ;  but  all  critics  allow  it  to  be 
a  great  work  of  art.  The  wonder  is  how  one  small  brain 
could  hold  such  a  multifarious  collection  of  Eastern  mate- 
rials. *'  Moore's  reading,"  says  a  great  Eastern  traveller, 
' '  is  better  than  riding  through  those  countries  on  the  back 
of  a  camel." 

"The  Loves  of  the  Angels"  is  another  Eastern  story  re- 
lated with  graceful  tenderness  and  passion,  though  Moore's 
angels  are  not  quite  after  the  manner  of  Milton,  and  have 
indeed  but  little  of  what  we  suppose  to  be  the  angelic  air 
about  them.  Moore's  longer  poems  lack  human  interest ; 
they  have  no  grand  depth  of  passion,  onl^^  a  sort  of  '*  fire- 
fly sparkle,"  and  no  high  and  pure  moral  sentiment.  As 
a  poetical  artist,  he  has  preferred  beaut}^  to  strength,  work- 
ing in  exquisite  ornament  of  foliage,  flowers,  and  gems, 
rather  than  in  the  durable  and  permanent  materials  of 
the  art.  Though  lacking  simplicity  and  genuine  passion, 
Moore  is  brilliant  and  gorgeous  to  excess  ;  and  as  honest 


BYRON  AND  MOORE.  371 

Jamie  Hogg  expresses  it,  "  his  verses  are  far  ow'er  sweet, 
ow'er  sweet !  " 

His  fame  rests  chiefly  upon  his  lyrical  productions. 
Here  he  may  rank  with  the  great  masters  of  English  song. 
A  passionate  lover  of  music,  possessing  an  exquisite  ear 
and  no  mean  degree  of  technical  knowledge,  with  grace, 
tenderness,  and  beauty,  if  not  depth  of  sentiment,  and 
that  exquisite  tact  for  eas}',  ready  adaptation  which  is  one 
of  the  acknowledged  characteristics  of  the  sons  of  Erin, 
he  is,  by  universal  consent,  the  most  acceptable  of -song- 
writers. ''  Dryden,"  says  Moore,  "  has  happily  described 
music  as  '  inarticulate  poetr}^ ; '  and  I  have  always  felt,  in 
adapting  words  to  an  expressive  air,  that  I  was  bestowing 
upon  it  the  gift  of  articulation,  and  thus  enabling  it  to  speak 
to  others  all  that  was  conveyed  by  its  wordless  eloquence 
to  myself."  Of  Wordsworth's  poetrj^  Hazlitt  aptlj-  observes, 
''  One  might  think  from  it  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
marrying  or  giving  in  marriage ;  "  of  Moore's  verse  it 
might  as  justly  be  said,  one  would  think  from  it  that  there 
was  nothing  hut  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage.  Even 
on  the  pages  especially  consecrated  to  moral  reflection  or 
grave  metaphor,  airy  little  Cupids  peep  from  sly  corners, 
pert  and  bewitching  as  the  marginal  cherubs  of  the  Sistine 
Madonna. 

Romantic  love-songs,  as  well  as  romantic  love,  have  gone 
a  little  out  of  fashion  since  Moore  was  in  his  prime.  The 
age  is  more  worldly-wise  and  less  romantic  ;  it  is  no  longer 
"  all  for  love,  and  the  world  well  lost,"  but  rather,  all 
for  the  world  and  love  well  lost.  What  modern  lover, 
however  bold,  would  venture  to  suggest  "  a  cot  in  the 
valley  he  loves,"  when  fair  maidens  (in  Yankee  phrase) 
*' trade'*  for  nothing  less  than  a  *' Queen  Anne"  or  a 
four-story  stone-front?  Yet  some  of  us  have  listened  to 
these  melodies  in  '  *  the  days  that  are  no  more,"  and  per- 


372  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

chance  from  lips  that  are  now  mute  and  cold.  To  us  they 
are  still  passion-laden  and  sweet,  stealing  upon  the  mem- 
'ory  like  wandering  airs  from  the  rose-gardens  of  our 
youth,  where,  under  the  dead,  scented  leaves,  old  loves 
and  dreams  lie  buried.  A  song-writer  does  not  need  to 
work  in  heav}',  durable  materials,  and  love-songs  may  carry 
a  burden  of  gems  and  flowers  that  would  sadly  cumber 
graver  strains.  Moore's  songs  are  therefore  the  most 
excellent  of  his  productions.  If  grace  and  melody  could 
give  im.mortalit}^  to  a  poet  in  this  field,  he  surely  would 
have  won  it ;  but  the  **  serene  creator  of  immortal 
things  "  must  embody  in  his  verse  a  deeper  pathos,  pro- 
founder  passion,  and  more  exalted  moral  sentiment  than 
can  be  found  on  the  rose-scented  pages  of  this  bard  of 
green  Erin.  Of  Moore's  l3Tics,  "  The  Meeting  of  the 
Waters,"  "  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  *'  Rich  and  Rare 
were  the  Gems  she  wore,"  "  Eveleen's  Bower,"  and  **  Ara- 
by's  Daughter,"  are  the  best ;  the  last-named  song  is  like 
the  embodied  soul  of  melody. 

Moore's  light,  ironical  pieces  are  in  their  way  unrivalled. 
His  wit  is  as  subtle,  keen,  and  delicate  as  his  fancy  is  airy 
and  brilliant.  He  never,  like  BjTon,  dips  his  pen  in  gall ; 
and  it  has  been  prettily  said  of  his  satires,  "  The}'  give 
delight,  and  hurt  not."  In  some  of  them  he  has  unfortu- 
natel}^  trespassed  upon  delicac}'  and  decorum.  This,  as 
a  specimen,  contains  its  due  proportion  of  wit,  and  is 
perhaps  as  unexceptionable  as  any.  It  appeared  at  a 
time  when  an  abundance  of  mawkish  reminiscences  and 
memoirs  had  been  showered  from  the  press,  and  bore 
the  title  of  "  Literary  Advertisement"  :  — 

"  Wanted  —  Anthors  of  all  work  to  job  for  the  season, 
No  matter  which  party,  so  faithful  to  neither ; 
Good  hacks,  who,  if  posed  for  a  rhyme  or  a  reason, 
Can  manage  like to  do  without  either. 


BYRON  AND  MOORE.  373 

"  If  in  jail,  all  the  better  for  out-of-door  topics ; 
Your  jail  is  for  travellers  a  charming  retreat ; 
They  can  take  a  day's  rule  for  a  trip  to  the  tropics, 
And  sail  round  the  world  at  their  ease,  in  the  Fleet. 

"  For  a  dramatist,  too,  the  most  useful  of  schools  — 

He  can  study  high  life  in  the  King's  bench  community  j 
Aristotle  could  scarce  keep  him  more  within  rules, 
And  of  place,  he  at  least  must  adhere  to  the  unity. 

"  Any  lady  or  gentleman  come  to  an  age 

To  have  good  *  Reminiscences  '  (three  score  or  higher), 
Will  meet  with  encouragement,  —  so  much  per  page. 
And  the  spelling  and  grammar  both  found  by  the  buyer. 

**  No  matter  with  what  their  remembrance  is  stocked, 
So  they  '11  only  remember  the  quantum  desired ; 
Enough  to  fill  handsomely  two  volumes  oct. 

Price  twenty-four  shillings,  is  all  that 's  required. 

**  Funds,  Physic,  Corn,  Poetry,  Boxing,  Romance, 
All  excellent  subjects  for  turning  a  penny ; 
To  write  upon  all  is  an  author's  sole  chance 
For  attaining  at  last  the  least  knowledge  of  any. 

**Nine  times  out  of  ten,  if  his  title  is  good, 

The  material  within  of  small  consequence  is ; 
Let  him  only  write  fine,  and  if  not  understood, 
"V\^liy  —  that 's  the  concern  of  the  reader,  not  his" 

These  fine  stanzas  from  ''An  Irish  Melody"  embody 
Moore's  philosophical  creed  :  — 

"  Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night ; 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  mornmg, 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  evening's  best  light. 

*'  Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  returning. 
When  passion  first  waked  a  new  life  through  his  frame. 
And  his  soul,  like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in  burning, 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  Love's  exquisite  flame  ?  " 


874  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

To  no  poet  of  this  era  can  we  more  justly  apply 
Gray's  description  of  the  poetical  character  —  ' '  thoughts 
that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn  "  —  than  to  Byron  ;  he 
is,  in  conception  and  expression,  most  intensely'  a  poet 
of  the  passions.  The  blood  of  a  passionate,  uncurbed, 
half-mad  ancestry-  ran  like  burning  lava  in  his  veins. 
The  Gordons  had  for  many  generations  been  tainted  with 
madness ;  the  Byrons  were  extremely  passionate  and 
eccentric;  and  when,  in  London,  January-,  1788,  the  son 
of  Capt.  John  BjTon  and  Catherine  Gordon  first  saw  the 
light,  would  it  have  been  reasonable  to  have  presupposed 
any  rare  moral  excellence  of  him  ?  To  replenish  his 
empty  coffers  his  dissolute  father  had  married  a  woman 
who  would  now  and  then  enact  before  her  only  son  such 
spirited  little  home-scenes  as  tearing  off  her  caps  and 
ribbons  in  fits  of  passion,  and  boxing  the  ears  of  her 
servants  all  round.  In  his  eleventh  year  this  child  of 
ill  parentage  succeeded  to  a  peerage  and  Newstead  Abbe}^ 

The  leading  incidents  in  Byron's  life  are  well-known. 
In  college  he  was  an  idle  and  irregular  scholar,  and  an 
eager  devourer  of  all  sorts  of  learning  except  that  pre- 
scribed for  him.  In  1807  appeared  his  first  volume  of 
poetry,  ''Hours  of  Idleness."  It  was  fiercely  assailed 
in  the  ''  Quarterly  Review ; "  and  more  fiercely  was  the 
assailant  disarmed,  if  not  altogether  discomfited,  by  his 
vigorous  satire,  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers." 
Then  came  foreign  travel,  and  as  its  fruits,  the  first  two 
cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold;"  and  thereafter  the  young 
poet  "  awoke  one  morning,  and  found  himself  famous." 
A  rapid  succession  of  Eastern  tales  followed,  and  B3Ton 
was  now  the  splendid  idol  of  the  day.  The  whole  United 
Kingdom  raved  of  Byron.  Not  only  his  poems,  but  the 
man  himself,  became  the  rage.  Shirt-collars  were  unani- 
mously turned  down,  and  Young  England  became  sud- 


BYRON  AND  MOORE.  375 

denly  bilious  and  misanthropic.  Then  came  a  round  of 
heartless  pleasures  for  the  poet,  alternating  with  satiety 
and  disgust ;  a  loveless  marriage,  discord,  perplexity,  and 
a  shameful  separation.  Miserable,  reckless,  sinning,  and 
aspiring,  ''  contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will," 
Byron  produced  poem  after  poem,  his  mental  energy 
still  gathering  force. 

Finally  there  came  to  this  reckless  nature  —  God  knows 
how  !  —  a  new  and  nobler  mood ;  and  in  1823  he  set  sail 
for  Greece  (endeared  to  his  recollection  as  the  scene  of  his 
youthful  travels),  to  aid  in  the  struggle  for  its  indepen- 
dence. In  Missolonghi,  where  in  January,  1824,  he  landed, 
BjTon  had  in  three  months  done  much  by  his  influence  and 
mone}",  both  of  which  he  had  generously  devoted  to  the 
work.  The  world  beheld  with  joy  this  dawning  of  a  truer 
and  better  life.  How  much  it  might  have  become  ennobled 
through  unselfish  work  we  can  never  know ;  for  on  the 
9th  of  April,  1824,  the  poet  was  seized  with  a  dangerous 
illness.  Delirium  ensued,  and  it  proved  fatal.  In  those 
last  hours  he  whispered  incoherent  messages,  of  which 
nothing  was  intelligible  except  ''mj^  sister,  my  child." 
About  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  19th  he  mur- 
mured, *'Let  me  sleep  now,"  and  turning  upon  his 
pillow,  fell  into  that  slumber  which  ended  in  eternal 
calm. 

Looking  at  Byron's  poetry,  as  we  now  must,  at  the 
remove  of  half  a  century,  when  the  cloudy  smoke  of  the 
old  incense,  curling  awa}",  has  at  last  melted  into  thin  air, 
we  ma}'  hope  to  measure  with  unprejudiced  e3'e  his  length, 
breadth,  and  depth,  and  to  examine  impartially  the  causes 
of  his  strength  and  his  weakness.  Of  true  poetic  inspira- 
tion perhaps  no  poet  ever  had  more  than  BjTon ;  and 
when  we  come  to  consider  what  he  has  done,  apart  from 
what  he  was^  we  must  award  to  him  the  most  brilliant  and 


876  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


elegant  fancy,  caustic  wit,  intensity  of  conception  and 
expression,  wild  originality  of  invention,  perfect  command 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue,  and  that  Rubens-like  facility 
of  touch,  indicating  resources  inexhaustible,  —  power  and 
strength  yet  in  reserve,  which  the  most  prodigal  expendi- 
ture cannot  bring  to  bankruptcy. 

It  has  been  said,  and  with  truth,  that  he  has  left  no 
school  behind  him.  He  neither  has,  nor  ever  had,  a  suc- 
cessful imitator.  Neither  can  it  be  denied  that  the  pop- 
ularity of  his  poetry  has  declined ;  this  is,  I  think,  solely 
to  be  attributed  to  the  absence  of  any  sustained  moral 
elevation  in  his  verse,  and  to  the  innate  falsity  of  his 
sentiment.  "  Beauty,"  which  is  "  a  joy  forever,"  he  has 
created ;  but  to  ugliness  and  deformity  he  has  too  often 
wedded  that  beauty,  —  a  marriage  unseemly  and  monstrous 
to  God  and  man !  His  art  we  approve  ;  its  perversion  we 
deplore.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  assert  that  a  poem  must  of 
necessity  owe  its  immortality  to  the  moral  truth  which  it 
contains.  Were  this  true,  Pollok  would  go  swimmingly 
down  the  "  corridors  of  time ; "  while  Anacreon  would  be 
consigned  to  the  top  shelf  instanter.  A  poem  may  live, 
and  that  right  vigorously,  by  mere  virtue  of  its  artistic 
and  aesthetic  perfection.  But  let  it  be  understood  that  if 
there  is  no  profound  moral  strength  or  beaut}-,  though  it 
may  but  fill  the  eye,  as  does  the  bloom  of  the  rose ;  may 
but  satisfy  the  ear,  as  does  the  song  of  a  bird,  charming 
the  sense,  rather  than  the  soul ;  while  it  contains  no  moral 
loveliness,  —  it  should,  to  stand  any  chance  of  immortality, 
equally  be  free  of  all  moral  taint ;  and  this  unhappily 
cannot  be  said  of  Byron's  verse  as  a  whole. 

The  genius  of  BjTon  was  as  versatile  as  it  was  ener- 
getic. Various  are  the  styles  of  poetry  he  has  tried. 
First  came  the  "  Hours  of  Idleness,"  preluding  rather  than 
indicating  his  power;  then ''English  Bards  and  Scotch 


1 

md    II 


BYRON  AND  MOOUE.  37T 

Reviewers,"  more  original  and  more  promising ;  then  tlie 
first  two  cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  higher  and  more 
finished  strains ;  next  the  Oriental  rhapsodies,  in  which 
Lord  Byron  is  served  up  a  la  Corsair  and  a  la  Giaour 
done  to  a  turn,  but  still  the  inevitable  Lord  Byron,  who 
*'  hath  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  him."  The 
novelty  of  scene  and  subject,  and  the  exaggerated  tone 
of  passion  in  these  tales,  so  intoxicated  the  public  mind 
as  to  make  all  other  poetry  seem  spiiitless  and  wearisome. 
''  Though  evincing  infinitely  more  power  than  anything  he 
had  yet  done,  these  tales,"  saj^s  a  profound  critic,  ''  owe 
their  popularity  mainly  to  a  certain  trickery  in  the  writ- 
ing, which  takes  the  ear,  in  spite  of  hollowness  of  senti- 
ment and  extravagance  of  narrative  and  portraiture.*' 
"Parisina,"  ''The  Siege  of  Corinth,"  ''Mazeppa,"  and 
"  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  "  followed,  —  all  more  true,  deep, 
and  beautiful  than  the  preceding  tales.  ''  The  Prisoner  of 
Chillon,"  while  it  is,  in  point  of  moralit}',  the  most  fault- 
less of  Byron's  poems,  for  tenderness,  simplicity,  and 
touching  pathos  is  perhaps  unexcelled  in  our  literature. 
The  highest  forms  of  BjTon's  poetry  may  be  found  in  the 
last  two  cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  in  ''Cain,"  "  Man- 
fred," and  finally  in  "  Don  Juan,"  which,  though  under 
ban  for  its  levities,  audacities,  and  indecencies,  looked 
at  simply  from  an  artistic  point  of  view,  without  reference 
to  anj'thing  but  the  genius  and  power  of  writing  which  it 
manifests,  is  allowed  to  be  perhaps  the  greatest  English 
poem  of  the  present  centur}^ 

In  writing  this  poem,  Byron  took  great  pains  to  collect 
his  materials.  His  account  of  the  shipwreck  is  drawn 
from  narratives  of  actual  occurrences ;  and  his  Grecian 
pictures  —  feasts,  dresses,  and  holiday  pastimes  —  are 
literal  transcripts  from  life.  In  the  character  of  Haidee 
there  is  infinitely  more  poetical  beauty  than  may  be  found 


378  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

in  all  his  other  heroines  put  together.  Aside  from  its 
artistic  merit,  and  the  genius  and  power  of  writing  dis- 
played in  the  poem,  it  has  no  claim  upon  our  admiration. 
A  more  pitiable  prostitution  of  the  poetic  talent  than  is 
displayed  upon  some  of  the  pages  of  "  Don  Juan,"  the 
angels  never  wept  over ;  a  more  revolting  outrage  upon 
decency  the  annals  of  English  literature  cannot  show. 

In  vain  are  we  told  that  the  poem  had  a  moral  purpose, 
having  been  written  to  remove  the  cloak  which  the  maxims 
and  manners  of  society  throw  over  its  secret  sins,  and  to 
show  them  to  the  world  as  the}'  really  are.  No  amount 
of  sophistry  will  ever  make  black  white  ;  and  all  the  vigor 
of  this  fine  satire,  all  the  beauty  and  truth  of  portrait- 
ure and  description  with  which  it  abounds,  cannot  make 
the  poem,  as  a  whole,  even  presentable.  Byron  himself 
seems  to  have  vaguely  regretted  its  publication ;  and  had 
he  lived  to  have  become  altogether  true  to  his  nobler  self, 
he  would  undoubtedly  have  purged  its  pages  "as  by 
fire." 

As  it  is,  the  poem  has  really  done  less  harm  than  man}^ 
another  work  where  licentiousness  is  more  covertly  intro- 
duced. "  Vice,"  says  the  poet,  '*  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to 
be  seen."  While  the  rich  variety  of  Byron's  genius  may 
be  seen  in  ''  Don  Juan,"  its  greatness  and  power  are  best 
exhibited  in  "  Childe  Harold."  There  is  in  the  poem 
abundance  of  scorn  and  defiance  of  the  ordinary  pursuits 
and  ambitions  of  mankind ;  but  from  licentiousness  it  is 
entirely  free.  The  portrait  of  the  hero  (Byron  served  up 
again  a  la  Childe),  though  repulsive,  from  its  morbid  bitter- 
ness and  mock  desolation,  looks  passable  in  its  beautiful 
frame. 

The  Childe,  satiated  with  pleasure,  contemning  society, 
the  victim  of  a  dreary  and  hopeless  scepticism,  traverses 
the  fair  earth,  gives  us  the  most  graceful  and  animated 


BYRON  AND  MOORE.  379 

descriptions  of  scenery,  with  glimpses  of  life  and  manners, 
surveys  the  ruins  of  ancient  cities,  pictures  their  fallen 
glories,  describes  the  glorious  remains  of  ancient  art,  and 
moralizes  in  magnificent  strains  on  the  particular  events 
which  adorned  or  cursed  the  soil  on  which  he  trod. 

Byron's  intense  appreciation  of  ideal  beauty  and  sculp- 
tured grace,  his  passionate  energy  and  ecstasy,  reflected 
back  on  the  glowing  pages  of  ''  Childe  Harold,"  have  made 
it  one  of  the  noblest  creations  in  poetry. 

Over  the  ruins  of  Athens,  the  Childe  indulges  in  this 
grand  but  drearily  sceptical  strain  of  philosophj'.  Nothing 
finer  of  its  kind  can  be  found  in  our  language. 

"  Look  on  this  spot,  —  a  nation's  sepulchre  ! 
Abode  of  Gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 
Even  gods  must  yield,  —  religions  take  their  turn  : 
*  T  was  Jove's, '  t  is  Mahomet's ;  and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
"Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ; 
Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built  on  reeds. 


"  Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scattered  heaps  : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  god  may  dwell? 
Why,  ev'n  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shatter'd  cell ! 

"Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruin'd  wall, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul ; 
Yes,  this  was  once  Ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  soul ; 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre  eyeless  hole. 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit, 
And  Passion's  host,  that  never  brook'd  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ. 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit  1 

"  Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son  ! 
*  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known.' 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun  ? 
Each  has  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 


380  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimeth  best ; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest. 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever-welcome  rest. 

"  Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deemed,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore. 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labors  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  feared  to  hear  no  more ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  revealed  to  sight, 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  Sage,  and  all  who  taught  the  right." 


Many  of  Byron's  minor  poems  are  exquisitely  graceful 
and  tender.  After  the  separation  of  Lord  and  Lad3^  Byron 
the  full  tide  of  public  opinion  set  against  him ;  his  most 
slanderous  and  deadly  foes  were  those  who  had  most  cov- 
eted his  friendship.  Miserable,  and  utterl^^  hopeless  of  stem- 
ming the  torrent  of  abuse,  tormented  by  pecuniar}'  troubles 
which  his  own  recklessness  and  improvidence  had  brought 
upon  him,  he  determined  to  leave  England.  The  only 
person  with  whom  he  parted  with  regret  was  his  sister, 
Mrs.  Leigh,  and  to  her  he  penned  that  fine  and  touch- 
ing tribute,  *' Though  the  Day  of  my  Destiny's  over." 
To  Mr.  Moore  he  addressed  that  well-known  song,  "  My 
Boat  is  on  the  Shore  ;  "  and  to  Lady  Byron,  *'  Fare  thee 
well."  These  stanzas  from  the  poem  to  his  sister  are  a 
fair  example  of  Byron's  style  in  his  shorter  poems ;  — 

"Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over, 
And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 
The  faults  which  so  many  could  find ; 


BYRON    AND  MOORE.  381 

Thongh  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted, 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

"  Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me. 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake. 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me,  ^ 

Though  slandered,  thou  never  couldst  shake ; 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me. 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly. 
Though  watchful,  't  was  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

**  Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it. 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one. 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun ; 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me. 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

"  From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perished. 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall. 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  cherished 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing. 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee." 

"  The  Dream,"  in  which  Byron  has  commemorated  his 
bo3'ish  idolatry  of  his  Marj^  is  an  exquisite  poem  and  in 
point  of  morality  entirely  unexceptionable.  Byron's  later 
dramas  are,  for  the  most  part,  stiff,  declamatory,  and  un- 
dramatic.  *'  Manfred,"  his  earliest  dramatic  production,  is 
a  work  of  great  power  as  a  poem  ;  as  a  drama  for  presen- 
tation on  the  stage  it  is  excelled   by  many  another  far 


382  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND   POETS. 

inferior  pla}-.  It  contains  some  of  Byron's  very  best 
poetry,  and  as  a  whole,  it  may,  I  think,  compare  with 
Goethe's  "  Faust."  In  the  second  scene  there  are  pas- 
sages unrivalled  in  dramatic  poetry.  The  soliloquy  of 
Manfred,  though  intensely  BjTonic,  Shakespeare  alone 
has  surpassed.  The  time  is  morning;  Manfred  is  alone 
upon  the  cliffs  of  the  Jungfrau. 

"  The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me  — 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me  — 
The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me ; 
I  lean  no  more  on  superhuman  aid. 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf 'd  in  darkness, 
It  is  not  of  my  search.  —  My  mother  Earth ! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you,  ye  mountains. 
Why  are  ye  beautiful  1     I  cannot  love  ye. 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight  —  thou  shin'st  not  on  my  heart. 
And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance  ;  when  a  leap, 
A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 
To  rest  forever  —  wherefore  do  I  pause  1 
I  feel  the  impulse  — yet  I  do  not  plunge; 
,    I  see  the  peril  —  yet  do  not  recede ; 

And  my  brain  reels  —  and  yet  my  foot  is  firm : 

There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  withholds. 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live  ; 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 

To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself,  — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Ay, 

Thou  wing'd  and  cloud-cleaving  [an  eagle  passes]  minister. 

Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 


BYRON  AND  MOORE.  383 

Well  may'st  thou  swoop  so  near  me ;  I  should  be 

Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets ;  thou  art  gone 

Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee  ;  but  thine 

Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 

With  a  pervading  vision.  —  Beautiful ! 

How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world ! 

How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself ! 

But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 

Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 

To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mixed  essence  make 

A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 

The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride. 

Contending  with  low  wants,  and  lofty  will, 

Till  our  mortality  predominates, 

And  men  are  —  what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 

And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark  !  the  note, 

[The  Shepherd's  pipe  in  the  distance  is  heard.] 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed,  — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable,  —  pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd  ; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.  —  Oh,  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound  ! 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment  —  born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me ! " 

In  no  other  poetr}^  is  the  man  and  the  poet  so  intimately 
blended  as  in  B3Ton.  His  rank,  youth,  and  personal  fas- 
cinations, the  depth  of  his  sufferings  and  attachments,  his 
unreserved  disclosure  of  his  own  feehngs  and  passions,  his 
moodiness  and  misanthropy,  all  combined  to  throw  around 
him  that  weird  enchantment  which  has  created  for  the 
world  an  illusory  picture  of  the  man.  "  So  various,  in- 
deed," says  Moore,  "  were  his  attributes,  both  moral  and 
intellectual,  that  he  may  be  pronounced  to  be  not  one  but 
many ;  nor  would  it  be  any  exaggeration  of  the  truth  to 
say  that  out  of  the  mere  partition  of  the  properties  of  his 


384  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

single  mind  a  plurality  of  characters,  all  different  and 
vigorous,  might  have  been  furnished." 

Moore  is,  I  think,  the  best  and  most  truthful  of  Byron's 
biographers  ;  yet  he  has  been  accused  of  time-serving,  and 
certainly  he  seems  to  have  lacked  courage  to  be  inva- 
riably just  and  candid. 

Countess  Guiccioli,  with  too  partial  pen,  in  a  work  of 
nearly  seven  hundred  weary  pages  not  only  undertakes  to 
show  that  Byron  was  not  a  bit  of  a  sinner,  but  to  prove 
him,  bej'ond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  the  most  consummate 
of  saints. 

An  American  authoress  next  tries  her  hand  at  him,  and 
in  a  miserably  ill-judged  article  hastens  to  informs  us  that 
he  is  no  saint  nor  even  sinner  in  the  common  acceptation 
of  the  word,  but  simply  a  monster,  an  incarnate  fiend ! 
The  public,  in  view  of  the  enormity  of  her  accusation,  ven- 
tures upon  remonstrance,  and  suggests  joroq/".  Hereupon, 
with  the  admirable  consistency  of  a  certain  famous  ''wise" 
man  in  "  Mother  Goose,"  who,  having  lost  both  his  eyes  by 
a  disastrous  jump  into  a  "  brier  bush,"  "  with  all  his  might 
and  main  jumps  straight  into  another  bush  to  scratch  them 
in  again,"  she  gives  us  another  and  a  "  True  Story  of 
Lad}'  B3Ton's  Life,"  which  onlj-  serves  to  bewilder  us  in 
a  labjTinth  of  conjecture  and  to  bring  Byron  into  fashion 
again,  does  a  little  harm  to  Lady  Byron  and  her  cause, 
and  a  great  deal  to  one  whom  we  all  love  and  admire,  — 
its  author. 

And  after  all  has  been  said,  a  wise  and  candid  judgment 
which  "  naught  extenuates,  nor  aught  sets  down  in  malice," 
must  still  accord  to  BjTon  a  noble  though  faulty  nature. 
His  peculiar  nervous  organization  made  him  a  medium  for 
all  exquisite  poetical  sensibilities,  for  all  fine  and  subtle 
harmonies  of  being,  and  all  intense  sensual  emotions  that 
stir  this  mortal  frame.     Such  an  inflammable,  uncertain, 


BYRON  AND  MOORE.  385 

fascinating  creature  Nature  made  at  her  own  sweet  will,  — 
her  beautiful  and  waj^ward  child. 

In  no  wise  becoming  apologists  for  the  sins  of  Bjron, 
candor  still  compels  his  critics  to  acknowledge  his  gen- 
erosity, his  truthfulness,  his  sincere  attachment  to  the  few 
whom  he  really  loved,  his  tender  solicitude  for  his  mother, 
his  yearning  fondness  for  his  daughter  Ada,  his  watchful 
care  for  his  illegitimate  child  AUegra,  and  his  idolatrous 
affection  for  his  only  sister,  who  was,  as  he  affirms,  "  the 
purest,  the  most  angelic  of  beings,  goodness  itself"  (and 
until  we  reallj^  have  proof  to  the  contrary,  let  us  not  violate 
the  ashes  of  a  dead  woman  by  doubting  him),  and  last, 
but  not  leasts  his  kind  and  almost  paternal  care  for  his 
servants.  Filial  and  paternal  love  are  instinctive,  and 
maj'  in  some  degree  exist  in  natures  otherwise  mean 
and  barren ;  but  delicate,  thoughtful  recognition  of  the 
claims  and  needs  of  the  poor  and  the  lowty  can  only 
emanate  from  a  truly  noble  soul.  To  "Mr.  Ruskin," 
he  writes  of  his  servants,  "  I  have  sent  Robert  home 
with  Mr.  Murray,  because  the  country  through  which  I 
am  about  to  travel  is  in  a  state  which  renders  it  unsafe 
for  one  so  3'oung.  Let  every  care  be  taken  of  him,  and  let 
him  be  sent  to  school.  In  case  of  my  death,  I  have  pro- 
vided enough  in  my  will  to  render  him  independent."  And 
again  to  his  mother,  ''  Fletcher  is  well ;  pray  take  care  of 
my  boy  Robert  and  the  old  man  Murray.  It  is  fortunate 
they  returned  ;  neither  the  youth  of  the  one  nor  the  age  of 
the  other  would  have  suited  the  changes  of  climate  and 
fatigues  of  travelling."  And  later  he  writes  to  her,  "  Pray 
take  some  notice  of  Robert^  who  will  miss  his  master,  poor 
boy!" 

While  rendering  due  homage  to  the  purity  and  goodness 
of  Lady  Byron,  one  cannot  fail  to  admit  that  his  marriage 
was  the  gTeat  mistake  of  Byron's  life.     Eccentric  to  the 

25 


386       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

verge  of  insanity,  his  *' blood  all  meridian,'*  organically 
impatient  of  conventional  restraint,  and  ever  feverishly 
restless,  small  affinit^^  (if  I  may  use  a  misused  word)  had 
he  with  this  serene,  matter-of-fact  Englishwoman,  —  lovel}' 
and  perfect  in  her  own  way,  no  doubt,  but  by  those  verj- 
perfections  rendered  infinitely  antagonistic  to  this  wild, 
irregular  nature.  As  well  put  a  royal  eagle  in  a  hen-coop 
as  such  a  man  within  the  quiet  paling  of  domestic  life. 
Later,  when  years  had  tamed  his  erratic  nature,  when  the 
real  and  nobler  Byron  was  in  the  ascendant,  it  might  have 
been  well,  —  for,  eminently  tender  and  affectionate  where 
he  really  loved,  he  could  have  rarely  blest  where  he  only 
wounded  and  outraged ;  but  as  it  was,  all  was  wrong  from 
beginning  to  end,  and  the  fatal  result  of  this  marriage 
was  foreseen  by  all  who  understood  him. 

To  sum  up  this  estimate  of  Byron's  character,  we  must  11 
accord  to  him  rare  virtues  and  glaring  vices ;  3'et  let  us 
ever  remember  that  whatever  he  was,  he  was  at  least  no 
hj'pocrite.  Not  only  was  it  his  fixed  purpose  ever  to  dis- 
avow his  virtues,  but  morbidly  to  delight  in  the  imputation 
to  himself  of  imaginary  crimes. 


"  This  should  have  been  a  noble  creature  :  he 
Hath  all  the  energy  which  might  have  made 
A  goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements. 
Had  they  been  wisely  mingled ;  as  it  is, 
It  is  an  awful  chaos,  —  light  and  darkness. 
And  mind  and  dust,  and  passions  and  pure  thoughts, 
Mixed,  and  contending  without  end  or  order. 
All  dormant  or  destructive." 

In  view  of  the  disgraceful  controversy  which  has  dis- 
turbed the  ashes  of  one  of  England's  greatest  poets,  it 
can  only  be  said  that  B3Ton  asked  of  life  as  its  final  boon, 
"  sleep."     Let  him  then  sleep,  accusing  world  I 


BYRON  AND  MOORE.  387 

**  It  is  enough  ;  for  him  there  are 
No  fruits  to  pluck,  no  palms  for  winning, 
No  triumph,  and  no  labor,  and  no  lust. 
Only  dead  yew-leaves,  and  a  little  dust. 
O  quiet  eyes  wherein  the  light  saith  naught, 
Whereto  the  day  is  dumb,  nor  any  night 
With  obscure  finger  silences  your  sight ; 
Nor  in  your  speech  the  sudden  soul  speaks  thought. 
Sleep,  and  have  sleep  for  light ! " 


388  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTEK  XYIII. 

MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH. 

WORDSWORTH,  Coleridge,  Southey,  Scott,  Camp- 
bell, Moore,  and  Byron,  whatever  discordance 
there  may  have  been  in  public  opinion  in  regard  to  their 
relative  or  absolute  merits,  were  oracles  to  whom  all 
listened,  whose  inspiration  all  men  acknowledged ;  yet 
many  other  voices  there  were  from  which  divine  words 
were  now  heard. 
To  the  humbler  bards  of  this  time,  — 

** .  .  .  humming  their  lowly  dreams 
Far  in  the  shade  where  poverty  retires/*  — 

we  owe  that  reverence  and  admiration  which  our  Long- 
fellow has  thus  beautifully  expressed, — 

"  Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart. 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer. 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

"  Who  through  long  days  of  labor. 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

"  Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer." 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  389 

Leaving  awhile  the  proud  *'  corridors  of  time,"  where 
distant  footsteps  of  more  famous  children  of  song  still 
grandl^^  echo,  let  us  now  follow  these  lowlier  paths  where 
poetry  and  poverty  have  walked  hand  in  hand. 

Wandering  about  Edinburgh  in  search  of  old  volumes, 
Bishop  Heber,  early  in  the  present  century,  dropped  often 
into  the  little  shop  of  Constable,  —  afterward  the  eminent 
publisher ;  here,  perched  like  Dominie  Sampson  on  a  lad- 
der, where  with  a  huge  folio  in  his  hand  he  would  remain 
for  hours,  he  frequently  fotmd  a  queer,  uncouth-looking 
personage.  Entering  into  conversation  with  this  unshorn 
stranger,  he  discovered  him  to  be  somewhat  acquainted 
-with  everything  in  the  way  of  literature,  and  especially 
a  master  of  legend  and  tradition,  and  an  enthusiast  for 
Border  ballads.  This  singular  person  was  John  Le}-- 
den,  born  in  a  peasant's  cottage  in  one  of  the  wildest 
valleys  of  Roxburghshire. 

To  this  extraordinary  man  poverty  was  no  barrier  to 
learning.  Give  him  bread  and  water  and  books,  it  is 
said,  and  he  was  happy.  His  whole  life  was  one  eager 
study,  and  his  rude,  savage  manners  mingled  with  his 
learning  are  said  to  have  placed  him  ' '  somewhere  be- 
tween the  schoolman  and  the  moss-trooper." 

His  parents,  seeing  his  desire  for  instruction,  determined 
to  educate  him  at  Edinburgh  College,  where  he  was  entered 
in  the  fifteenth  year  of  his  age.  He  made  rapid  progress, 
was  an  excellent  Latin  and  Greek  scholar,  and  acquired 
also  the  French,  Spanish,  Italian,  and  German,  besides 
studying  the  Hebrew,  Arabic,  and  Persian.  He  became 
no  mean  proficient  in  mathematics  and  various  branches 
of  science.  Before  his  commanding  talents,  his  retentive 
memory,  and  robust  application,  every  difficulty  vanished. 
His  college  vacations  were  spent  at  home ;  and  as  his 
father's  cottage  afforded  him  little  opportunity  for  quiet 
and  seclusion,  he  looked  out  for  accommodation  abroad. 


390  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

The  kirk  (except  during  divine  service)  is  rather  a  place 
of  terror  to  the  Scottish  rustic ;  and  the  parish  church  of 
Cavers,  a  gloomy  and  ancient  building,  was  generallj^  be- 
lieved in  the  neighborhood  to  be  haunted.  Ley  den,  partly 
to  indulge  his  humor,  and  partly  to  secure  his  retirement, 
contrived  to  make  some  modern  additions  to  the  old  tales 
of  ghosts  and  witchcraft.  To  this  well-chosen  spot  of  seclu- 
sion, usuall}'^  locked  during  week-da3's,  he  made  entrance 
by  means  of  a  window,  read  there  for  many  hours  in  the 
day,  and  deposited  his  books  and  specimens  in  a  retired 
pew.  The  nature  of  his  abstruse  studies,  some  specimens 
of  natural  history,  as  toads  and  adders  left  exposed  in 
their  spirit-vials,  and  a  few  practical  jests  played  off  upon 
the  curious,  rendered  this  gloomy  haunt  sacred  from  in- 
trusion. From  this  singular  and  romantic  place  of  study 
Leyden  sallied  forth  with  his  curious  and  various  stores  to 
astonish  his  college  associates. 

At  the  expiration  of  his  university  studies,  he  became 
tutor  to  the  young  Campbells,  whom  he  subsequent^  ac- 
companied to  college,  where  he  still  pursued  his  own  re- 
searches connected  with  Oriental  learning,  publishing  his 
translations  from  the  Northern  and  Oriental  tongues  in 
the  "  Edinburgh  Magazine." 

In  1800  Leyden  was  ordained  for  the  Church.  He  still 
continued  to  study  and  compose,  ardently  assisting  Scott 
(whom  with  many  other  distinguished  literarj^  and  scien- 
tific men  he  numbered  among  his  friends)  in  his  *'  Min- 
strelsy of  the  Border."  On  one  occasion  Scott  had  an 
interesting  fragment  of  a  ballad,  but  it  had  been  hitherto 
found  impossible  to  recover  the  rest  of  the  poem.  For  the 
sole  purpose  of  visiting  an  old  person  who  possessed  this 
ancient  historical  ballad,  Leyden  walked  between  forty 
and  fift}^  miles  and  back  again ! 

He  performed  successfully  a  variety  of  literary  work.  His 
strong  desire  to  visit  foreign  countries  induced  his  friends 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  391 

to  apply  to  Government  for  some  appointment  for  him 
connected  with  the  languages  and  learning  of  the  East. 
The  only  situation  they  could  procure  was  that  of  sur- 
geon's assistant ;  and  in  five  or  six  months,  by  incredible 
labor,  Leyden  qualified  himself,  and  obtained  his  diploma. 
In  1802  he  left  Scotland  forever.  He  afterward  became  a 
professor  in  the  Bengal  College  and  was  appointed  a  judge 
in  Calcutta.  Here  he  still  devoted  his  spare  time  to  Orien- 
tal manuscripts  and  antiquities,  and  soon  acquired  the  repu- 
tation of  the  most  extraordinary  of  Orientalists.  After 
seven  years'  labor  he  became  affected  with  the  fatal  sick- 
ness peculiar  to  the  climate,  and  died  in  the  midst  of  his 
hopes,  having  reached  the  same  age  that  Burns  and  BjTon 
lived  to  see,  —  thirt3'-six. 

As  a  poet  Leyden  is  elegant  rather  than  forcible.  His 
ballads  are  greatly  superior  to  his  "  Scenes  of  Infancy,"  — 
a  poem  descriptive  of  his  native  vale.  His  versification  is 
soft  and  musical.  The  opening  of  his  ballad  entitled 
*'The  Mermaid"  "exhibits,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "a 
power  of  numbers  which  for  mere  melodj'  of  sound  has  sel- 
dom been  excelled  in  English  poetry." 

This  one  poem  proves  Leyden  among  his  various  endow- 
ments to  have  been  not  meanly  gifted  with  the  genuine 
power  of  the  poet.  These  stanzas  are  from  the  "  Mer- 
maid," and  are  an  example  of  his  rhythmic  grace.  The 
story  is  too  long  for  insertion.  It  is  well  conceived  and 
interesting. 

"  On  Jura's  heath  how  sweetly  swell 
The  murmurs  of  the  mountain  bee  I 
How  softly  mourns  the  writhed  shell 
Of  Jura's  shore,  its  parent  sea ! 
"  But  softer  floating  o'er  the  deep, 

The  Mermaid's  sweet  sea-soothing  lay, 
That  charmed  the  dancing  waves  to  sleep 
Before  the  bark  of  Colonsay." 


392  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Walter  Scott  honored  Le3'den's  memory  with  a  notice  of 
his  life  and  genius  ;  and  in  his  "  Lord  of  the  Isles"  he  thus 
touchingly  alludes  to  his  untimely  death  :  — 

"  Scarba's  Isle,  whose  tortured  shore 
Still  rings  to  Corrievreckan's  roar, 

And  lonely  Colonsay ; 
Scenes  sung  by  him  who  sings  no  more. 
His  bright  and  brief  career  is  o'er, 

And  mute  his  tuneful  strains ; 
Quenched  is  his  lamp  of  varied  lore, 
That  loved  the  light  of  song  to  pour : 
A  distant  and  a  deadly  shore 

Has  Leyden's  cold  remains." 

Robert  Bloomfield,  the  self-taught  author  of  the  ''  Far- 
mer's Boy,"  born  in  1766,  was  the  son  of  a  tailor,  and 
was  himself  brought  up  to  the  craft  of  St.  Crispin.  His 
poetry  was  chiefly  composed  in  a  shoemaker's  garret. 
Bloomfield  was  literally  one  of  the  poets  who  sang  — 

"  Through  long  days  of  pain, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease." 

He  was  thirty-two  years  of  age,  married,  and  the  father  of 
three  children  before  the  world  acknowledged  his  merit. 

The  Duke  of  Grafton  now  patronized  the  poet,  and 
through  his  influence  he  was  appointed  to  a  situation  in 
the  Seal  OflSce.  Here  his  situation  was  irksome  and  labo- 
rious, and  he  was  forced  to  resign  it  from  ill  health.  He 
engaged  in  the  bookselling  business,  but  was  unsuccess- 
ful. In  his  later  years  he  resorted  to  making  -^olian 
harps,  which  he  sold  among  his  friends.  Southey  took 
much  interest  in  his  welfare,  and  Rogers  kindl}-  exerted 
himself  to  procure  for  him  a  pension ;  but  his  last  da3's 
were  embittered  by  poverty',  and  so  severe  were  his  suf- 
ferings from  continual  headache  and  nervous   irritability 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  393 

that  fears  were  entertained  for  his  reason.  In  1823  death 
came  to  release  him  from  ''  this  poor  world's  strife." 

Bloomfield  is  a  descriptive  realist.  Like  Crabbe,  he 
pictures  rural  life  in  its  hardest  and  least  inviting  forms. 
In  his  tales  he  embodies  moral  feeling,  is  equall}^  faithful 
in  painting,  but  far  more  cheerful  in  tone,  and  his  inci- 
dents are  more  agreeable  than  Crabbe's.  A  remarkable 
feature  in  his  poetrj^  is  the  easy  smoothness  and  correct- 
ness of  his  versification.  His  ear  was  attuned  to  harmony 
by  nature  before  he  had  learned  an3'thing  of  the  art,  and 
his  taste  for  the  beauties  of  expression  was  innate. 

Bloomfield  is  one  of  the  most  characteristic  and  faithful 
of  our  poets.  The  humihty  of  his  themes,  joined  to  the 
want  of  vigor  and  passion  in  his  verse,  is  perhaps  the 
cause  of  his  being  now  little  read.  His  *'  Farmer's  Boy  " 
is  remarkable  for  freshness  and  realit}^  of  description,  and 
was  exceedingly  popular.  He  subsequently  published  a 
collection  of  "  Kural  Tales,"  which  fullj^  supported  his 
reputation;  and  to  these  were  afterward  added  "Wild 
Flowers"  and  "  Hazlewood  Hall,"  a  village  drama;  and 
in  the  year  of  his  death  he  published  his  "May-day  with 
the  Muses." 

George  Crabbe,  born  in  1754,  takes  precedence  of 
Bloomfield  for  originality  and  force.  His  father  was  a 
salt-master,  in  humble  circumstances ;  yet  out  of  his 
poverty  he  managed  to  give  his  son  a  superior  education. 
At  seventeen  Crabbe  was  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon.  Com- 
ing into  practice,  he  found  his  prospects  so  gloomy  that 
he  abandoned  his  profession,  and  with  only  three  pounds 
in  his  pocket,  proceeded  to  London  as  a  literar}^  adven- 
turer. His  poetical  wares  were  rejected  by  the  publishers, 
and  he  was  plunged  into  great  perplexity  and  want.  In 
this  desperate  state  of  his  affairs  he  applied  to  Sir  Edmund 
Burke,  who  kindly  became  his  friend  and  patron;   and 


394  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


while  under  his  hospitable  roof,  and  enjo3ing  the  society 
of  the  statesman's  distinguished  friends,  he  published  his 
poem,  *'  The  Library,"  which  was  favorably  noticed  by  the 
critics.  Lord  Thurlow  now  patronizes  the  poet,  invites 
him  to  breakfast,  and  with  pompous  generosity  presents 
him  with  a  bank-note  for  a  hundred  pounds.  He  enters 
into  sacred  orders  and  becomes  curate  of  Aldborough,  — 
his  native  parish.  Burke  procures  him  the  situation  of 
chaplain  to  the  Duke  of  Rutland,  and  he  is  nevermore  in 
perplexity  in  regard  to  his  bread  and  butter. 

In  1783  appears  his  "Village,"  corrected  by  Johnson 
and  Burke ;  its  success  is  instant  and  complete.  Lord 
Thurlow  swears  that  he  "is  as  like  Parson  Adams  as 
twelve  to  a  dozen, '^  and  presents  him  with  two  livings  on 
the  spot !  He  marries  his  earh^  love,  —  a  3'oung  lady 
who,  as  Mr.  Swiveller  would  have  phrased  it,  had  been 
"saving  up  for  him"  for  a  long  time,  —  settles  down 
upon  his  curacy  in  humble  retirement,  and  is  silent  as 
a  poet  for  many  j^ears. 

In  the  mean  time  his  capacious  mind  was  ever  employed. 
Out  of  doors,  says  his  biographer,  he  had  ever  some 
object  in  view,  a  flower,  a  pebble,  or  his  note-book  in 
hand ;  often  reading  aloud  while  walking,  or  making  little 
excursions  in  his  heavy  one-horse  chaise  that,  judging 
from  its  description,  must  have  been  as  logically  con- 
structed as  that  immortal  Yankee  vehicle  which  our  poet 
has  sung.  From  the  management  of  this  substantial  con- 
veyance his  good  wife,  in  their  journeys,  used  prudently 
to  relieve  her  absent-minded  spouse.  Indoors,  Crabbe 
is  said  to  have  been  almost  equally  industrious,  "  always 
reading  or  writing." 

In  1807,  after  a  silence  of  twenty  years,  came  forth  his 
"Parish  Register."  Its  success  was  unprecedented.  He 
continued  writing  in  the  same  narrative  style  ;  and  his  fine 


1 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  395 

delineations  of  life  and  character  were  received  by  the 
public  with  the  greatest  favor.  In  1814  he  was  appointed 
to  the  living  of  Trowbridge.  His  income  now  amounted 
to  about  eight  hundred  pounds,  a  large  portion  of  which 
he  spent  in  charity.  In  1819  Mr.  Murray  published  his 
last  great  work,  "  Tales  of  the  Hall,"  and  gave  for  them 
and  the  remaining  copyright  of  all  Crabbe's  previous 
poems  the  munificent  sum  of  three  thousand  pounds ! 
This  sum,  in  bills,  Crabbe  is  said  to  have  carried  loosely 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket  from  London  to  Trowbridge ; 
and  when  Moore,  Rogers,  Everett,  the  banker,  and  other 
friends  advised  its  immediate  safe  deposit,  the  good  old 
man  replied  with  characteristic  simplicity:  "No,  there's 
no  fear  of  my  losing  them  ;  I  must  take  them  to  Trow- 
bridge and  show  them  to  my  son  John.  They  will  hardly 
believe  in  my  good  luck  at  home  if  they  do  not  see  the 
bills." 

Crabbe's  tales  have  now  taken  their  place  among  our 
standard  national  literature.  His  "  Village,"  "  Parish 
Register,"  and  shorter  tales  are  his  best  productions.  As 
a  painter  of  English  scenery  he  possesses  high  merit. 
His  delineations  of  character  are  equall3^  meritorious. 

Crabbe  (if  that  is  not  a  misnomer)  is  not  a  poetical 
poet.  His  poetry,  without  the  rhyme  and  feet,  would 
differ  but  little  from  prose.  His  muse  was  matter-of- 
fact  to  a  degree  that  would  quite  have  charmed  our  old 
friend  Mr.  Gradgrind.  He  is,  like  Wordsworth,  the  poet 
of  the  poor;  yet  he  does  not  invest  his  characters  with 
"  the  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream."  Wordsworth 
puts  quantities  of  his  own  wisdom  and  imagination  into  the 
pack  of  his  pedlar;  his  "  Wagoner"  is  a  sort  of  classic 
Phaeton ;  and  all  his  characters  come  before  us  in  their 
Sunday  clothes.  Crabbe,  on  the  other  hand,  while  he  is 
as  faithful  in  dramatic  representation,  brings  upon  the 


396  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


stage  his  poachers,  smugglers,  gypsies,  and  gamblers  in 
their  every-day  attire,  dowdy,  out-at-elbows,  and  disin- 
vested  of  all  romance  or  imagination,  —  pictures  made 
shocking  by  their  very  fidelity,  and,  as  anatomical  exhi- 
bitions of  character  and  passion,  exhibiting  a  naked  re- 
ality that  makes  us  blush  for  our  humanity-.  Crabbe  is 
also  too  generally  a  gloomy  painter  of  life,  fond  of  de- 
picting the  unlovely  and  the  unamiable.  He  does  not 
appear  to  believe  that  it  is  the  poet's  mission  to  "turn 
the  sunny  side  of  things  to  human  eyes." 

The  distinguishing  and  redeeming  feature  of  Crabbe's 
genius  is  its  fidelity  to  Nature  in  its  minutest  details. 
*'  His  pictures,"  it  has  been  aptly  said,  ''  have  all  the 
force  of  dramatic  representation."  Heaven  allotted  him 
an  old  age  of  kindly  length.  In  1832  he  died.  After 
his  death  this  touching  stanza  from  his  pen  was  found 
wrapped  round  his  wife's  wedding-ring.  It  is  far  more 
graceful  than  most  of  his  efforts. 

"  The  ring  so  worn,  as  you  behold. 
So  thin,  so  pale,  is  yet  of  gold  : 
The  passion  such  it  was  to  prove ; 
Worn  with  life's  cares,  love  yet  was  love" 

In  the  present  age  Crabbe's  poetical  popularity  would 
have  been  simply  an  impossibility;  and  yet  in  his  day 
this  matter-of-fact  poet,  whose  verse  barely  escaped  being 
downright  prose,  carried  in  his  pocket  three  thousand 
pounds  earned  at  his  craft!  Shade  of  Milton,  forgive 
the  sordid  world  that  doled  thee  five  paltry  pounds  for 
thy  diyine  epic! 

The  best  passages  from  Crabbe's  ''Tales"  —  such  as 
the  "  Real  Mourner,"  the  "  Story  of  Phebe  Dawson,"  etc. 
—  are  familiarly  known.  This  song  of  the  Crazed  Maiden, 
from  "  Tales  of  the  Hall,"  is  a  specimen  containing  less 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  397 

prosaic  alloy  than  the  above-mentioned  popular  quota- 
tions, yet  still  ghastly  enough  in  parts  to  have  merited 
the  approval  of  Amine  herself,  —  that  lady  of  the  Arabian 
tale  whose  ghoulish  proclivities  have  forever  endeared 
her  to  the  youthful  heart. 

"  Let  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view 

About  my  room,  about  my  bed ; 
But  morning  roses  wet  with  dew, 

To  cool  my  burning  brow  instead ; 
As  flowers  that  once  in  Eden  grew, 

Let  them  their  fragrant  spirits  shed 
And  every  day  their  sweets  renew 

Till  I,  a  fading  flower,  am  dead. 

"  0  let  the  herbs  I  loved  to  rear 

Give  to  my  sense  their  perfumed  breath ! 
Let  them  be  placed  about  my  bier 

And  grace  the  gloomy  house  of  death. 
I  '11  have  my  grave  beneath  a  hill 

Where  only  Lucy's  self  shall  know 
Where  runs  the  pure  pellucid  rill 

Upon  its  gravelly  bed  below. 
There  violets  on  the  borders  blow. 

And  insects  their  soft  light  display, 
Till,  as  the  morning  sunbeams  glow, 

The  cold  phosphoric  fires  decay, 

**  I  will  not  have  the  churchyard  ground. 

With  bones  all  black  and  ugly  grown. 
To  press  my  shivering  body  round. 

Or  on  my  wasted  limbs  be  thrown. 
With  ribs  and  skulls  I  will  not  sleep 

In  clammy  beds  of  cold  blue  clay, 
Through  which  the  ringed  earth-worms  creep. 

And  on  the  shrouded  bosom  prey. 

**  I  will  not  have  the  bell  proclaim 

When  those  sad  marriage  rites  begin, 
And  boys,  without  regard  or  shame, 
Press  the  vile  mouldering  masses  in. 


398       ENGLISH  POETRY  AOT)  POETS. 

Baise  not  a  turf,  nor  set  a  stone, 

That  man  a  maiden's  grave  may  trace 

But  thou,  my  Lucy,  come  alone. 
And  let  affection  find  the  place." 

The  thought  contained  in  the  second  stanza  quoted  has" 
been  honored  by  a  repetition  in  that  exquisite  poem, 
'*June,"  by  our  own  Bryant. 

James  Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  as  he  was  com- 
monly called,  made  himself  known  by  a  volume  of  poems 
published  in  1801,  and  continued  to  put  forth  both  verse 
and  prose  as  long  as  he  lived.  Hogg  was  descended  from 
a  family  of  shepherds,  and  born,  as  he  alleged  (though 
the  point  was  often  disputed),  on  the  25th  of  January 
(Burns's  birthda}'),  in  the  year  1772.  When  a  mere  child 
he  was  put  out  to  service,  acting  first  as  cowherd  until 
capable  of  taking  care  of  a  flock  of  sheep. 

Hogg  had  in  all  his  life  but  a  half-3'ear's  schooling.  As 
he  lay  watching  his  flock  on  the  hillside,  he  taught  himself 
to  write  bj^  copying  the  printed  letters  of  a  book.  He  sub- 
scribed to  a  circulating  library,  and  was  an  eager  reader 
of  poetrj^  and  romances.  His  mother  was,  like  Burns's, 
a  famous  reciter  of  legends  and  ballads,  and  *'  when  doors 
were  barred,  and  darkness  fell,"  his  lonel}'  daj's  on  Et- 
trick's  wildest  hills  were  exchanged  for  evenings  of  listen- 
ing to  the  — 

"  Mystic  lore  sublime 
Of  fairy  tales  of  ancient  time.** 

At  eighteen,  with  his  light-brown  hair  curled  up  under 
his  blue  bonnet,  Jamie  Hogg  is  said  to  have  been  the 
bonniest  of  shepherd  laddies.  A  severe  illness,  we  are 
told,  subsequently  destroyed  all  his  beauty.  He  had 
already  published  in  a  small  volume  his  first  literary 
efforts  in  song-writing,  when  William  Ludlow,  his  mas- 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  899 

ter's  son,  introduced  him  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who,  with 
ready  discernment,  found  under  his  rude,  uncultivated  ex- 
terior a  loving,  generous  heart  and  a  soul  full  of  genius. 
Hogg,  like  Leyden,  assisted  Scott  in  the  collection  of  old 
ballads  for  the  "  Border  Minstrelsy." 

As  his  efforts  were  warmly  praised  by  his  illustrious 
friend,  he  came  down  from  the  forest  to  pay  him  a  visit, 
and  with  William  Ludlow  and  others  was  asked  to  dinner. 
The  worthy  shepherd  appeared  in  his  ordinary  herdsman's 
dress,  with  his  hands  well  tarred  by  a  recent  shearing. 
Not  being  accustomed  to  the  society  of  "grand  folk," 
he  had,  it  is  said,  communed  with  himself  how  he  should 
act,  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  to  cop3'  the  lady  of 
the  house  in  all  things.  Mrs.  Scott,  being  quite  unwell, 
received  her  guests  reclining  on  a  sofa.  Jamie,  true  to 
his  principle,  had  no  sooner  made  his  best  bow  than  he 
crossed  the  room  and  stretched  himself  out  at  full  length 
upon  another  ! 

Hogg  now  published  another  volume  of  songs  and 
poems,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Mountain  Bard,"  in  which 
the  style  of  the  ancient  ballads  was  imitated  with  great 
felicity.  Embarking  in  sheep-farming,  he  lost  in  the  en- 
terprise all  he  had  saved  as  a  shepherd,  and  at  this  crisis 
of  his  fortunes,  repaired  to  Edinburgh,  and  endeavored  to 
subsist  by  his  pen.  "The  Forest  Minstrel,"  a  collection 
of  songs,  was  his  first  effort;  his  second  a  periodical 
called  "The  Spy;"  but  it  was  not  until  1813  that  the 
shepherd,  by  the  publication  of  the  "  Queen's  Wake," 
established  his  reputation  as  an  author.  "The  Queen's 
Wake  "  is  a  legendary  poem  consisting  of  a  collection  of 
tales  and  ballads,,  supposed  to  be  sung  to  Mary,  Queen  of 
Scots,  by  the  native  bards  of  Scotland,  assembled  at  a 
wake  at  Holyrood,  in  order  that  the  fair  queen  might 
prove  "  the  wondrous  powers  of  Scottish  song."   The  work 


400  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND    POETS. 

in  design  and  execution  exhibits  at  once  the  delicacy 
and  the  genius  of  the  author.  The  thread  of  narrative 
by  which  the  different  productions  of  the  native  minstrels 
are  strung  together  is  written  with  exquisite  grace. 

Hogg  has  the  same  abstract  beauty  and  wealth  of  gor- 
geous splendor  that  characterizes  Spenser.  He  loved, 
like  "Eliza's  golden  poet,"  to  picture  scenes  of  super- 
natural beauty  and  magnificence.  Painter  or  poet  never 
woke  to  life  a  lovelier  fairy  vision  than  his  "  Kilmeny  ;  " 
it  is  too  long  to  quote  entire,  and  almost  too  fine  to 
mutilate. 

"  Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen ; 
But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duniera's  men, 
Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing, 
And  put  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring ; 
The  scarlet  hypp,  and  the  hindberrye, 
And  the  nut  that  hangs  f  rae  the  hazel  tree. 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o'er  the  wa'. 
And  lang  may  she  seek  i'  the  greenwood  shaw ; 
Lang  the  laird  of  Duniera  blame. 
And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  hame. 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 
When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead. 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny's  soul  had  been  sung, 
When  the  beadsman  had  prayed,  and  the  dead-bell  rung, 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin*,  when  all  was  still, 
When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin  hill, 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i'  the  wane. 
The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane ; 
When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  leme 
Late,  late  in  the  gloamin',  Kilmeny  came  tame ! 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ?  » 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 
But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face ; 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  401 

As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  ee, 

As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant  lea, 

Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  sea. 

For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where, 

And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not  declare ; 

In  that  green  wene  Kilmeny  lay, 
Her  bosom  happed  wi'  the  flowrets  gay ; 
But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep. 
And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep. 
She  kend  nae  mair,  nor  opened  her  ee, 
Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a  far  countrye. 
She  wakened  on  couch  of  the  silk  sae  slim. 
All  striped  wi'  bars  of  the  rainbow's  rim; 
And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife, 
Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life. 

They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 
And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a  sunless  day ; 
The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow. 
And  the  flowers  were  of  everlasting  blow. 
Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid, 
That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade ; 
And  they  smiled  in  heaven  when  they  saw  her  lie 
In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by. 
The  sun  that  shines  on  the  world  so  bright, 
A  borrowed  gleid  frae  the  fountain  of  light ; 
And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun, 
Like  a  gowden  bow,  or  a  beamless  sun, 
Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mair. 
And  the  angels  shall  miss  them  travelling  the  air. 
But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day, 
When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  elyed  away  ; 
When  the  sinher  has  gane  to  his  waesome  doom, 
Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom !  " 

Hogg  had  not  Burns's  strength  of  passion  or  peculiar 
grasp  of  intellect;  neither  was  his  song,  like  Burns's, 
linked  to  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  actual  existence.  He 
was  more  prone  to  commit  himself  to  aerial  phantoms  of 
supernatural  beauty  and  splendor  than  Burns,  whose  vls- 

26 


402  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

ions  had  always  in  them  a  preponderance  of  good  tangible 
flesh  and  blood.  He  lacked  art  to  construct  a  fable,  and 
that  taste  which  gives  due  effect  to  imagery  and  con- 
ception ;  and  though  the  most  imaginative  and  creative  of 
the  uneducated  poets,  his  taste  was  sadly  defective. 

Blackwood  wanted  some  very  dark  passage  in  his  '*  Pil- 
grims of  the  Sun "  omitted  or  elucidated ;  Hogg  was 
immovable.  "But,  man,"  said  the  publisher,  *'I  do  not 
know  what  you  mean  in  this  passage."  "  Hout  tout,  mon," 
quo'  Jamie,  "  I  dinna  ken  what  I  mean  mysel" 

One  can  imagine  the  poet  who  propounded  to  us  the 
riddle  of  the  "  red  slayer  "  to  have  conceived  his  poem  in 
a  vein  of  sophistry  not  unlike  this  of  the  honest  shepherd  ; 
and  here  it  may  be  recorded  that  among  the  favorite  poetry 
of  Emerson  was  Hogg's  "  Kilmeny." 

Hogg's  worldl}^  schemes  were  unsuccessful  enough  to 
have  proved  him  a  true  brother  of  the  precariously  sus- 
tained minstrels  of  the  "  North  Countree."  For  the  latter 
years  of  his  life  his  sole  support  was  the  remuneration 
afforded  by  his  literary  labors.  These  days  were  spent  in 
his  moorland  cottage,  where  he  divided  his  time  between 
the  labors  of  the  pen,  and  angling  and  hunting,  of  which  he 
was  passionately  fond.  Generous,  kind-hearted,  and  char- 
itable far  bej'ond  his  means,  notwithstanding  his  personal 
foibles,  he  was  beloved  throughout  the  vale  of  Ettrick,  and 
all  rejoiced  in  his  fame.  Deeply  lamented,  in  the  autumn  of 
1835  the  shepherd  minstrel,  after  weary  days  of  suffering, 
succeeded  by  a  long,  death-like  trance,  fell  asleep  as 
quietly  as  when,  wrapped  in  his  plaid,  he  rested  through 
the  summer  noon  among  the  lonely  Ettrick  glens.  Few 
poets  have  been  more  largely  endowed  with  that  direct 
inspiration  which  proves  ^oetr}^  in  the  abstract  to  be 
indeed  an  art  unteachable  and  untaught. 

His  songs  have  a  wild  lyrical  flow,  inexpressibly  sweet 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  403 

and  musical,  —  a  rhythm  whose  fall  is  as  soft  as  the  sigh 
of  an  ^oliau  harp,  as  is  seen  in  this  exquisite  lyric,  "  The 
Skylark":  — 

"  Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 
0  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth, 

Where  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying  1 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

"  O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen. 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green. 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day. 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim. 
Musical  cherub,  soar  singing  away ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes. 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms. 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! " 

Allan  Cunningham,  a  happy  imitator  of  the  old  Scottish 
ballads,  was  born  at  Blackwood  in  1784.  His  life  affords 
a  fine  example  of  successful  original  talent,  integrity,  and 
perseverance. 

Cunningham  was  of  humble  parentage,  his  father  (like 
Burns's)  being  a  gardener;  and  he  was  himself  but  a 
mason's  apprentice,  when,  impelled  by  that  Destiny  that 
shapes  our  rough-hewn  ends,  in  1810  he  abandoned  his 


404  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

trade,  and  removed  to  London  to  connect  himself  with 
the  newspaper  press.  There  he  was  engaged  as  clerk,  or 
superintendent,  to  Chantrey,  the  eminent  sculptor,  in 
whose  establishment  he  continued  till  his  death,  which 
took  place  in  1842.  Besides  being  the  author  of  many 
clever  songs,  he  was  an  expert  and  voluminous  writer  in 
prose.  All  his  literary  labors  were  performed  in  the  inter- 
vals of  his  stated  avocations  in  Chantrey's  studio,  which 
most  men  would  have  considered  ample  employment. 

As  a  poet  Cunningham  may  be  considered  as  imitative 
rather  than  creative.  His  lyrics  abound  in  traits  of  Scot- 
tish rural  life  and  primitive  manners,  are  characterized  by 
grace  and  tenderness,  and  though  less  popular  than  those 
of  Ramsay,  are  replete  with  rich  Doric  simplicity  and 
fervor.  Cunningham  was  an  indefatigable  writer.  His 
last  prose  work  —  *'  Life  of  Wilkie  the  Artist "  —  was  com- 
pleted just  two  days  before  his  death.  One  of  his  most 
popular  songs  is  ''  A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea." 

This  lyric  of  Cunningham  is  arch,  graceful,  and 
tender :  — 

"  Red  rows  the  Nith  'tween  bank  and  brae, 

Mirk  is  the  night  and  rainy  O, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  should  mix  in  storm, 

I  '11  gang  and  see  my  Nanie  0 ; 
My  Nanie  O,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

My  kind  and  winsome  Nanie  O, 
She  holds  my  heart  in  love's  dear  bands, 

And  none  can  do  't  but  Nanie  O. 

"  In  preaching  time  sae  meek  she  stands, 

Sae  saintly  and  sae  bonnie  O, 
I  cannot  get  ae  glimpse  of  grace,  ' 

For  thieving  looks  at  Nanie  0 ; 
My  Nanie  O,  my  Nanie  O ; 

The  world 's  in  love  with  Nanie  O : 
That  heart  is  hardly  worth  the  wear 

That  wadna  love  my  Nanie  0. 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  405 

"  My  breast  can  scarce  contain  my  heart, 

When  dancing  she  moves  finely  O ; 
I  guess  what  heaven  is  by  her  eyes  — 

They  sparkle  sae  divinely  O ; 
My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  O. 

The  flower  0  Nithsdale's  Nanie  0 ; 
Love  looks  frae  'neath  her  long  brown  hair, 

And  says,  *  I  dwell  with  Nanie  0/ 

"  Tell  not,  thou  star,  at  gray  daylight. 

O'er  Tinwald's  top  sae  bonnie  O, 
My  footsteps  mang  the  morning  dew 

When  coming  frae  my  Nanie  0 ; 
My  Nanie  O,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

Nane  ken  o'  me  and  Nanie  O ; 
The  stars  and  moon  may  tell 't  aboon 

They  wiuna  wrang  my  Nanie  0 1 " 

John  Clare,  one  of  the  most  truly  uneducated  of  our 
English  poets,  and  one  of  the  best  of  our  rural  describers, 
affords  another  fine  example  of  the  struggles  of  youthful 
genius.  He  was  born  at  Helpstone  in  1793.  His  parents 
were  peasants,  his  father  a  helpless  cripple  and  a  pauper. 

Working  as  a  ploughboy,  John  acquired  from  the  labor 
of  eight  weeks  as  many  pence  as  paid  for  a  month's 
schooling.  At  thirteen,  he  met  with  Thomson's  "  Sea- 
sons," and  hoarding  up  a  shilling  to  purchase  a  copy,  at 
daybreak,  on  a  spring  morning,  he  walked  six  or  seven 
miles  to  obtain  the  coveted  treasure.  Returning  to  his 
native  village  with  the  precious  purchase,  Clare  composed 
his  first  piece  of  poetry,  which  he  called  the  "  Morning 
Walk."  This  was  soon  followed  by  the  ''  Evening  Walk," 
and  some  other  pieces. 

A  benevolent  exciseman  had  meantime  taught  him 
writing  and  arithmetic.  "Most  of  his  poems,"  says  his 
biogi'apher,  "  were  composed  under  the  immediate  im- 
pressions of  his  feelings  in  the  fields  or  on  the  roadsides." 


406       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

He  wrote  them  down  with  a  pencil  on  the  spot,  his  hat 
serving  him  for  a  desk.  He  could  not  alwa^^s  decipher 
these  imperfect  memorials ;  and  from  this  cause  many  of 
his  poems  exist  only  in  fragments.  From  a  hole  in  the 
wall  of  his  room,  where  he  deposited  his  manuscripts,  a  bit 
of  paper  was  often  taken  to  hold  the  kettle  with,  or 
light  the  fire  ;  thus  many  of  his  early  pieces  were  entirely 
destroyed. 

In  1817  Clare  resolved  to  "see  himself  in  print."  By 
hard  working,  day  and  night,  he  had  got  a  pound  saved 
that  he  might  have  a  prospectus  printed.  This  was  ac- 
cordingly done,  and  as  the  result,  only  seven  subscribers 
came  forward.  One  of  these  prospectuses  brought  Clare 
into  notice  with  a  kindly  bookseller,  and  through  him  the 
poems  were  purchased  by  a  publisher  for  twenty  pounds. 

His  poems,  bearing  the  title  of  ''  Poems  descriptive 
of  Rural  Life  and  Scenery,"  were  published  in  1820.  The 
public  interest  was  awakened.  The  magazines  and  re- 
views were  unanimous  in  his  favor,  and  many  noblemen 
and  gentlemen  now  contributed  from  their  abundance ; 
and  in  a  short  time  Clare  was  in  possession  of  a  little 
fortune.  With  a  permanent  allowance  of  thirty  pounds  per 
annum,  he  married  his  ''  Patty  of  the  Vale,"  —  the  daughter 
of  a  neighboring  farmer ;  and  in  his  native  cottage  at 
Helpstone,  with  his  aged  and  infirm  parents  and  his  young 
wife  by  his  side,  Clare  basked  for  a  time  in  the  sunshine 
of  successful  and  rewarded  genius.  In  1821  he  published 
the  ''Village  Minstrel,  and  other  Poems."  He  afterward 
contributed  short  pieces  to  the  Annuals  and  other  period- 
icals, marked  by  a  more  choice  and  refined  diction.  Though 
he  now  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  a  true  poet,  his  pros- 
perity, alas!  came  to  an  end.  His  discretion  was  not 
equal  to  his  genius.  Speculating  in  farming,  he  wasted 
his  little  hoard,  and  amid  accumulating  diflaculties,  sank 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  407 

into  despondency  and  despair,  and  became  a  hopeless 
maniac;  and  the  Ufe  whose  morning  was  so  bright  was 
doomed  to  close  in  a  private  insane  asylum. 

**  We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness ; 
But  thereof  comes  in  the  end  despondency  and  madness." 

Literature  has  at  no  time  exhibited  a  more  striking  in- 
stance of  patient  and  persevering  talent,  existing  and 
enduring  through  poverty  and  privation. 

Clare's  chief  excellence  consists  in  his  minute  and  faith- 
ful painting  of  rustic  scenes  and  occupations.  Careful 
finish  he  does  not  give  to  his  pictures.  He  wrote  of 
Nature  out  of  the  fulness  of  a  lover's  heart ;  and  in  his 
picturesque  catalogue  of  her  charms  he  has  included  all 
ber  beauties,  weeds  as  well  as  flowers.  In  these  happy 
microscopic  views  of  Nature,  Grahame,  the  poet  of  the 
Sabbath,  can  alone  come  into  competition  with  Clare.  In 
sentiment  Clare  is  delicate  and  true.  This  poem,  entitled 
"  First  Love's  Recollections,"  is  in  his  best  vein :  — 

"  First  love  will  with  the  heart  remain, 

When  its  hopes  are  all  gone  by ; 
As  frail  rose-blossoms  still  retain 

Their  fragrance  when  they  die : 
And  joy's  first  dreams  will  haunt  the  mind. 

With  the  shades  'mid  which  they  sprung, 
As  summer  leaves  the  stems  behind, 

On  which  spring's  blossoms  hung. 

**  How  loath  to  part,  how  fond  to  meet, 

Had  we  too  used  to  be ; 
At  sunset  with  what  eager  feet 

I  hastened  unto  thee  ! 
Scarce  nine  days  past  us  ere  we  met 

In  spring,  nay,  wintry  weather  ; 
Now  nine  years'  suns  have  risen  and  set, 

Nor  found  us  once  together. 


408       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

**  Thy  face  was  so  familiar  grown. 

Thyself  so  often  nigh, 
A  moment's  memory  when  alone 

Would  bring  thee  in  mine  eye ; 
But  now  my  very  dreams  forget 

That  witching  look  to  trace ; 
Though  there  thy  beauty  lingers  yet. 

It  wears  a  stranger's  face. 

"  When  last  that  gentle  cheek  I  prest. 

And  heard  thee  feign  adieu, 
I  little  thought  that  seeming  jest 

Would  prove  a  word  so  true ! 
A  fate  like  this  hath  oft  befell 

Even  loftier  hopes  than  ours ; 
Spring  bids  full  many  buds  to  swell, 

That  ne'er  can  grow  to  flowers." 

Robert  Tannahill,  a  lyrical  poet  of  a  superior  order, 
followed  the  occupation  of  a  weaver.  His  education  was 
limited,  but  he  was  a  diligent  reader  and  student.  Smith, 
a  musical  composer,  set  some  of  Tannahill's  songs  to 
original  and  appropriate  airs,  and  in  1807  he  ventured 
on  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  poems  and  songs,  of 
which  the  first  impression,  consisting  of  nine  hundred 
copies,  was  sold  in  a  few  weeks. 

Tannahill  was  an  ill-starred  son  of  genius.  He  had 
prepared  a  new  edition  of  his  poems  for  the  press ; 
the  publisher  to  whom  he  sent  it,  not  having  time  to 
publish  it  that  season,  returned  the  manuscript.  This 
disappointment  preyed  on  his  sensitive  mind ;  he  burned 
all  his  manuscripts,  sank  into  mental  derangement,  and  in 
May,  1810,  put  an  end  to  his  wear}^  mortal  existence. 
His  lyrics  are  rich  and  original,  both  in  sentiment  and 
description,  and  in  them  his  diction  is  copious  and  luxu- 
riant, and  he  is  often  tender  and  pathetic. 

This  stanza  from  Tannahill's  l3Tic,  ''  The  Flower  of 
Dumblane,"  may  compare  with  Burns :  — 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  409 

"  The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the  lofty  Ben-Lomond, 

And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o'er  the  scene, 
While  lanely  I  stray  in  the  calm  summer  gloamin, 

To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dumblane. 
How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi'  its  sauf t  f auldin'  blossom ! 

And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi'  its  mantle  o'  green ; 
Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  bosom. 

Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dumblane." 

Tannahill's  poems  are  far  inferior  to  his  songs.  He  did 
not  write  well  in  English ;  and  they  are  often  common- 
place and  artificial. 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  Corn-Law  Rhymer,  born  in  1781, 
sprung  Lolxx  cixG  manufacturing  poor  of  England,  and  was 
early  accustomed  to  toil  and  privation,  though  eventually 
he  won  ease  and  comparative  affluence.  Elliott  writes 
from  genuine  feeling  and  impulse.  Against  the  laws  re- 
lating to  the  importation  of  corn  he  especially  inveighed  ; 
hence  his  title.  In  depicting  the  social  and  political 
wrongs  of  the  poor  he  has  committed  man}^  errors  of  taste 
which  his  genius  has  fortunately  redeemed.  Elliott  is  said 
to  have  approved  of  *'  equal  division  of  unequal  earnings." 
As  a  poet  he  often  rises  into  pure  sentiment  and  real 
eloquence. 

This,  entitled  "  A  Poet's  Prayer,"  shows  Elliott  at 
his  best. 

*'  Almighty  Father !  let  thy  lowly  child, 
Strong  in  his  love  of  truth,  be  wisely  bold  — 
A  patriot  bard  by  sycophants  reviled, 
Let  him  live  usefully,  and  not  die  old  ! 
Let  poor  men's  children,  pleased  to  read  his  lays. 
Love  for  his  sake  the  scenes  where  he  hath  been. 
And  when  he  ends  his  pilgrimage  of  days. 
Let  him  be  buried  where  the  grass  is  green. 
Where  daisies,  blooming  earliest,  linger  late 
To  hear  the  bee  his  busy  note  prolong ; 


410       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

There  let  him  slumher,  and  in  peace  await 

The  dawning  morn,  far  from  the  sensual  throng, 

Who  scorn  the  wind-flower's  blush,  the  redbreast's  lovely  song." 

One  more  poet  of  this  time,  who  amid  poverty  and  dis- 
couragement struggled  valiantl}^  for  a  place  among  the 
*'  lords  of  song,"  claims  our  notice.  "•  The  battle  of  his 
life  was  brief,"  and  at  twenty-five  the  over-tasked  body 
of  Robert  Nicoll  surrendered  to  — 


al    I 
T     11 


"  The  mild  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  Silent  Land."    - 

NicoU  had  steadily  cultivated  his  mind  by  reading  ant 
writing,  and  his  poems,  especially  the   short  occasional 
pieces  and  songs,  display  happy  rural  imagery  and  fanc}^ 
Some  of  his  poetry  was  written  when,  far  gone  in  gob- 
sumption,  like  poor  Keats,  he  "felt  the  daisies  growing    ' 
over  him." 

This,  from  a  poem   entitled  *'  Thoughts  of  Heaven," 
may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  NicoU's  style :  — 

"High  thoughts! 

They  come  and  go, 
Like  the  soft  breathings  of  a  listening  maiden. 

While  round  me  flow 
The  winds,  from  woods  and  fields  with  gladness  laden : 
When  the  corn's  rustle  on  the  ear  doth  come. 
When  the  eve's  beetle  sounds  its  drowsy  hum, 
When  the  stars,  dewdrops  of  the  summer  sky, 
Watch  over  all  with  soft  and  loving  eye ; 

While  the  leaves  quiver 

By  the  lone  river. 

And  the  quiet  heart 

From  depths  doth  call, 

And  garners  all ; 

Earth  grows  a  shadow 

Forgotten  whole. 
And  Heaven  lives  in  the  blessed  sonl.** 


MINOR  POETS  OF  HUMBLE  BIRTH.  411 

Among  the  poets  here  reviewed  we  have  not  the  mar- 
vellous workmanship  that  reveals  the  master-hand,  —  some- 
times only  simple  poetic  utterances,  —  yet  they  sang  as  one 
sings  who  believes  what  he  is  singing ;  and  though  we 
cannot  look  to  them  for 

"  Poems  round  and  perfect  as  a  star," 

let  us  still  honor  the  valiant  souls  who,  amid  "  want  and 
poortith  cold,"  have  kept  the  heaven-kindled  flame  of 
poesy  alight,  and  while  learning  in  suffering,  have  taught 
in  song. 


412  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"FEMALE  POETEY." 

JEFFREY,  that  doughty  Scot  before  whose  critical  blud- 
geon many  a  poor  poet  has  shaken  in  his  shoes,  in 
a  review  of  1829  has  been  pleased  to  accord  to  the  met- 
rical composition  of  our  sex  the  name  of"  Female  Poetry  ;  " 
and,  not  without  grave  doubts  as  to  its  elegance  and  pro- 
priety, I  have  used  his  appellative  as  the  designation  of 
this  chapter. 

Of  women  as  artists  this  has  been  encouragingly  said  : 
"  In  their  finished  performances  they  accomplish  perhaps 
more  completely  than  men  all  the  ends  at  which  they  aim  ; 
and  the  pure  specimens  of  feminine  art  exhibit  a  fine  and 
penetrating  spuit  of  observation,  soft-handed  delicacy  of 
touch,  and  unerring  truth  of  delineation,"  and  it  might  be 
added  (though  these  are  the  exception,  not  the  general 
rule),  rugged  masculine  strength  and  power,  —  as  in  the 
painting  of  Rosa  Bonheur,  the  prose  of  George  Eliot,  and 
the  poetry  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  woman,  since  the  downfall  of  Eve,  has  had 
compulsory  and  especial  training  in  the  hard  school  of 
patience;  and  although  "patience  is"  not,  as  has  been 
asserted,  "genius,"  by  the  cultivation  of  this  humble  vir- 
tue she  has  not  only  attained  to  an  important  condition 
of  artistic  success,  but  has  obtained  a  positive  advantage 
over  the  bolder  but  less  all-enduring  artisans  of  the  other 
sex. 


•'FEMALE  POETRY."  413 

To  the  inherent  and  inevitable  necessities  of  her  life, 
rather  than  to  the  sparsity  of  her  education  or  the  tyrann}' 
of  her  social  position,  must,  I  think,  be  attributed  the  fact 
that  woman  has  seldom  taken  the  highest  rank  as  a  crea- 
tive artist.  The  sacred  duties  of  wifehood  and  motherhood 
alone,  involving  as  they  do  an  endless  round  of  attention 
to  petty  detail,  have  tended  rather  to  make  woman  ''  care- 
ful and  troubled  about  many  things  "  than  to  foster  and 
develop  in  her  any  latent  artistic  power.  But  a  discussion 
of  woman's  duties  and  capabilities  leads  far  afield ;  and 
the  question  of  the  equality  of  the  sexes  —  as  unprofitable 
as  it  is  much  vexed  —  has  been  so  abl}^  and  thoroughly 
discussed  that  I  need  but  say,  with  Dennis,  that  prudent 
*'  double,"  "  so  much  has  been  said,  and  so  well  said, 
etc.,"  and  wisely  return  to  my  own  especial  subject. 

Of  purely  feminine  art,  without  the  slightest  masculine 
admixture,  our  literature  affords  no  fairer  specimen  than 
the  poetry  of  Felicia  Hemans,  born  at  Liverpool,  1793. 
Her  father  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  her  mother  of  mingled 
Italian  and  German  descent.  To  compound  a  poet  Na- 
ture could  not  more  happily  have  chosen  her  elements,  — 
easy  spontaneous  mental  facility  from  Ireland,  intellectual 
insight  from  Germany,  and  sensuous  fervor  from  Italy. 

From  her  cradle  Felicia  Browne  was  distinguished  for 
beauty  and  precocity.  Her  father,  a  merchant  of  con- 
siderable eminence  in  Liverpool,  on  account  of  commer- 
cial reverses  was  obliged  to  break  up  his  establishment 
in  that  city  before  his  daughter  had  attained  her  seventh 
year.  He  removed  with  his  family  into  "Wales,  and  there, 
among  the  most  picturesque  mountain  scenery,  in  a  large 
old  mansion  beside  the  "ever-sounding  sea,"  her  poetic 
genius  was  nursed.  There  she  imbibed  that  romantic  love 
of  Nature  which  became  to  her  an  intense  passion. 

The  ''green  land  of  Wales,"  with  its  hoary  ruins  and 


414  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

old  traditions,  till  the  latest  day  of  her  existence  was 
cherished  in  her  heart  of  hearts ;  and  when  parted  from 
it,  she  seems  to  have  had  for  this  beloved  soil  a  fond 
yearning  not  unlike  the  Swiss  homesickness.  In  her 
fifteenth  year  Felicia  Browne  published  her  first  volume 
of  poetry,  which  naturally  met  but  httle  encouragement 
bej'ond  the  circle  of  her  partial  friends.  Another  small 
volume,  entitled  "The  Domestic  Affections,  and  Other 
Poems,"  was  given  to  the  world  in  1812,  and  in  the 
summer  of  the  same  year  Felicia  Browne  became  Mrs. 
Hemans. 

At  fifteen,  in  the  full  glow  of  her  radiant  beauty,  when 
she  is  said  irresistibly  to  have  suggested  Wordsworth's 

**  .  .  .  phantom  of  delight 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay," 

this  romantic  girl  first  met  Captain  Hemans,  whose  im- 
passioned admiration  awoke  in  her  artless  and  enthusi- 
astic nature  a  return  to  his  professed  devotion ;  and  to 
this  ardent  soldier-lover  Q'hy  no  means,"  it  is  said,  des- 
titute of  advantages  either  of  person  or  education)  she 
gave  her  heart,  and  easily  invested  him  with  all  the  attri- 
butes of  the  heroes  of  her  dreams.  After  six  years  this 
marriage  came  to  that  untoward  separation  which  ended 
in  permanent  alienation.  Uncongeniality,  indifference  on 
the  part  of  Captain  Hemans,  and  jealous  dislike  to  those 
quiet  mental  pursuits  that  to  this  gifted  woman  were  the 
necessities  of  life,  have  been  assigned  as  causes  for  this  un- 
happy separation,  that  to  so  exquisitely  moulded  a  nature 
as  Mrs.  Hemans's,  endowed  with  the  rarest  capabilities 
for  loving  and  suflering,  must  have  been  a  deadly  blow. 
Though  ever  delicately  reticent  in  regard  to  her  desertion, 
its  effect  may  be  distinctlj^  seen  in  Mrs.  Hemans's  poems ; 
and  this  it  was,  no  doubt,  that  gave  to  them  that  peculiar 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  415 

strain  of  sentimental  sadness  which  is  one  of  their  almost 
morbid  defects.  A  brighter  destiny  might  have  made 
them  as  hearty  and  wholesome  as  they  are  genuine  and 
beautiful,  but  — 

"  Unto  Aer,  Earth's  gift  was  fame/* 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  cause  of  the  alienation  of 
Captain  Hemans  from  his  wife,  it  cannot  have  been  that 
essential  unfitness  of  the  poetess  for  domestic  life  which 
shallow  minds  have  predicated  of  genius.  B}^  her  brothers 
and  sisters  she  seems  to  have  been  regarded  with  little 
less  than  idolatry ;  and  to  her  boys  she  was  ever  the  tru- 
est and  most  devoted  of  mothers.  The  sympathy  of  the 
children  in  the  pursuits  of  their  mother  was  singularly 
deep  and  touching.  When  the  prize  of  the  Royal  Liter- 
ary Society  was  awarded  to  her  poem  of  ''Dartmoor," 
she  thus  writes:  "Would  that  3'ou  had  but  seen  the 
children  when  the  prize  was  announced !  Their  accla- 
mations were  deafening ;  and  George  said  that  the  excess 
of  his  pleasure  had  really  given  him  a  headache."  And 
again  she  says  in  a  private  letter:  "  Of  all  things,  never 
may  I  become  that  despicable  thing,  a  woman  living  upon 
admiration !  The  village  matron,  tidying-up  for  her  hus- 
band and  children  at  evening,  is  far,  far  more  enviable 
and  respectable.  .  .  .  Those  whom  the  multitude  believe 
to  be  rejoicing  in  their  own  fame,  strong  in  their  own 
resources,  beyond  all  others,"  she  writes,  "have  most 
need  of  true  hearts  to  rest  upon."  Said  Wordsworth, 
with  his  clear  and  simple  insight,  "It  is  not  because 
women  possess  genius  that  they  make  unhappy  homes, 
but  because  they  do  not  possess  enough ;  a  higher  order 
of  mind  would  enable  them  to  see  and  feel  all  the  beauty 
of  domestic  life."  And  amid  all  the  adulation  awakened 
by  her  genius  and  loveliness   Mrs.  Hemans,  it  is  said, 


416  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

turned  ever  from   "  the  wide  world "  to  "  sing  to  her 
nest." 

And  now  this  "  widowed  wife,"  still  corresponding  with 
her  husband  in  Italy,  and  referring  to  him  in  all  things 
relative  to  the  disposal  of  her  boys,  yet  for  the  last  seven- 
teen 3'ears  of  her  life  never  once  meeting  him,  devoted  the 
remainder  of  her  days  to  poetic  composition  and  the  edu- 
cation of  her  children.  Her  reputation  increased.  Jeffrey 
applauded,  Byron  admired,  her  verse ;  Scott  and  Words- 
worth extended  to  her  their  cordial  appreciation  and  sincere 
friendship ;  the  gifted  of  her  own  sex  —  Mary  Mitford, 
Joanna  Baillie,  Hannah  More,  Mary  Howitt,  and  others 
—  gave  her  their  warmest  sympathy  and  approbation  ;  and 
now,  while  strong  claims  were  urging  her  to  incessant  lit- 
erary labor,  the  fatal  effect  of  constant  poetical  composi- 
tion upon  a  frame  naturally  delicate  began  to  appear.  She 
suffered  often  from  pain  and  alarming  palpitations  after 
intellectual  toil ;  and  in  the  autumn  of  1834  a  severe  cold 
told  fearfully  upon  a  constitution  already  enfeebled,  sapped 
too,  no  doubt,  of  its  strength  by  that  ceaseless  inward 
bleeding  known  only  to  the  breaking  heart.  Pulmonary 
symptoms  soon  appeared,  ending  in  hopeless  decline.  On 
Sunday,  the  26th  of  April,  calmed  and  sustained  by  a 
beautiful  faith,  and  serene  in  hope,  Mrs.  Hemans  dictated 
her  last  poem,  this  beautiful  '*  Sabbath  Sonnet" :  — 

"  How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  bending 
Through  England's  primrose  meadow-paths  their  way 
Toward  spire  and  tower,  'midst  shadowy  elms  ascending, 
Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallow'd  day ! 
The  halls,  from  old  heroic  ages  gray, 
Pour  their  fair  children  forth ;  and  hamlets  low, 
With  whose  thick  orchard  blooms  the  soft  winds  play. 
Send  out  their  inmates  in  a  happy  flow, 
Like  a  freed  vernal  stream ;  /  may  not  tread 
With  them  these  pathways  —  to  the  feverish  bed 


"FEMALE  POETRY.'*  417 

Of  sickness  bound ;  yet,  0  my  God  !  I  bless 
Thy  mercy,  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  filled 
My  chasten'd  heart,  and  all  its  throbbings  stilled 
To  one  deep  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness." 

When  May  with  blossoms  and  singing-birds  made  glad 
the  hours,  God  took  this  weary  singer  to  his  eternal  peace. 
The  period  under  consideration  has,  with  the  single  ex- 
ception of  Mrs.  Browning,  produced  no  poetess  as  emi- 
nent as  Mrs.  Hemans.  She  was  by  birth,  training,  and 
profession  a  poet,  publishing  her  first  verses  at  fifteen,  and 
until  her  death,  at  fort3^-one,  scarcely  allowing  her  pen  to 
rest.  "  Poor  soul !  poor  soul !  "  said  Wordsworth  of  her, 
"  she  wrote  too  much  ;  "  and  Dr.  Holmes  has  aptly  com- 
pared her  poetic  growth  to  "  a  bed  of  asparagus,  cut  every 
morning."  Both  have  found  the  key-note  to  her  weak- 
ness. That  fine  frenzy  in  which  the  poet  works  his  mira- 
cles is  not  perpetual,  an  unfailing  celestial  afflatus  turned 
on  at  will  like  water  from  a  well-ordered  conduit.  As  the 
wind,  inspiration  cometh  and  goeth  where  it  listeth,  but 
with  no  mortal  doth  it  abide  continually ;  and  the  poet 
who  seeks  Parnassus  as  regularly  as  he  winds  his  watch, 
cannot  invariably  — 

"  Drink  deep  of  the  Pierian  spring." 

Though  highly  popular  during  her  lifetime,  and  still 
valued  and  admired,  Mrs.  Hemans's  poetry,  with  a  few 
exceptions,  is  not  likel}^  to  go  down  the  ages  with  that  of 
some  of  her  cotemporaries.  "The  Graves  of  a  House- 
hold," "Bernardo  Del  Carpio,"  "  Casablanca,"  and  "The 
Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,"  touching,  as  they  do, 
with  masterly  skill  and  power,  chords  existent  in  our  com- 
mon humanity,  bid  fair  for  immortalit3\  Higher  and  more 
passionate  strains  may  be  found  in  the  "  Records  of 
Woman  ;  "  and  her  "  Forest  Sanctuary"  has  been  consid- 

27 


418  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


lere  (j 


ered  the  best  of  her  longer  poems.  Beauty  enough  there 
is  in  her  poems ;  chivah-ous  and  romantic  imagination 
they  do  not  lack,  nor  melody  of  versification.  Her  verse 
abounds  in  glittering  imager}^,  polished  words,  grace, 
sweetness  of  conception,  and  passionate  fervor ;  yet  we 
look  in  vain  to  her  for  that  bold  originality  of  thought 
and  style  which  characterizes  immortal  poetrj^  Though 
hers  was  not  the  highest  and  most  commanding  genius, 
her  poems  are  infinitely  sweet,  elegant,  and  tender,  and 
finished  with  exquisite  delicacy  of  execution  ;  and  the  rare 
purity  of  her  mind  is  displayed  in  all  her  works. 

In  tragedy  she  has  not  been  successful.  Some  of  her 
longer  poems  are  "  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  and 
often  wearisome  from  their  sameness.  Not  so  with  her 
''Records  of  Woman."  Here  we  have  Mrs.  Hemans's 
best  and  most  sustained  effort.  In  these  poems  she  en- 
gages our  attention  by  the  interest  of  her  narrative,  and 
wins  and  holds  our  admiration  b}^  the  passionate  fervor 
and  ornate  diction  of  her  verse.  Her  "Women"  are,  it 
is  true,  somewhat  old-fashioned  in  type ;  they  seem  to 
accept  without  a  pang  of  discontent  the  limitations  of 
their  sex,  and  are  never  observed  to  be  in  a  pother  about 
their  "  sphere."  Gloriously  lo^-al  to  love  they  are,  and  con- 
tent with  the  opportunities  that  lie  close  at  hand,  yet 
when  occasion  presents,  falling  into  heroic  places  as  natu- 
rally and  easily  as  grass  grows,  or  water  runs  down-hill. 
As  mothers  the}'  are  religiouslj'  devoted  to  their  children ; 
and  they  are  so  emphatically  out  of  date  as  to  be  roman- 
tically in  love  with  their  lovers  and  husbands,  and  to  think 
it  worth  their  while  to  do  and  dare,  and  at  a  pinch,  even 
to  die  for  them.  Such  are  the  women  whose  deeds  and 
fortunes  are  related  in  Mrs.  Hemans's  ''  Records."  *'  The 
Indian  City"  is  perhaps  one  of  the  finest  of  these  tales. 
This  passage  does  indeed  appeal  to  "  thousands  "  :  — 


"FEMALE   POETRY."  419 

"  Are  there  no  words  for  that  common  woe  ? 
Ask  of  the  thousands,  its  depth  that  know ! 
The  boy  had  breathed,  in  his  dreaming  rest, 
Like  a  low-voiced  dove,  on  her  gentle  breast : 
He  had  stood,  when  she  sorrow'd,  beside  her  knee, 
Painfully  stilling  his  quick  heart's  glee ; 
He  had  kiss'd  from  her  cheek  the  widow's  tears, 
With  the  loving  lip  of  his  infant  years ; 
He  had  smiled  o'er  her  path  like  a  bright  spring  day  — 
Now  in  his  blood  on  the  earth  he  lay ! 
Murder' d  !  —  Alas !  and  we  love  so  well 
In  a  world  where  anguish  like  this  can  dwell !  '* 

In  the  epistle  from  "Lady  Arabella  Stuart"  she  has 
finely  displayed  her  power,  and  in  "  Properzia  Rossi"  she 
has  expressed  her  very  self.  Properzia,  a  celebrated 
female  sculptor  of  Bologna,  possessed  also  of  talents  for 
poetry  and  music,  died  in  consequence  of  an  unrequited 
attachment.  A  fine  painting  represents  her  as  showing 
her  last  work,  a  basso-relievo  of  Ariadne,  to  a  Roman 
knight,  the  object  of  her  affection,  who  regards  it  with 
indifference.     Properzia,  notwithstanding,  would  still 

"...  leave  enshrined 
Something  immortal  of  her  heart  and  mind." 

And  as  she  shapes  her  ideal,  she  thus  soliloquizes :  — 

"...  Awake !  not  yet  within  me  die. 
Under  the  burden  and  the  agony 
Of  this  vain  tenderness,  —  my  spirit,  wake ! 
Ev'n  for  thy  sorrowful  affection's  sake, 
Live !  in  thy  work  breathe  out !  that  he  may  yet, 
Feeling  sad  mastery  there,  perchance  regret 
Thine  unrequited  gift. 

It  comes ;  the  power 
"Within  me  born,  flows  back ;  my  fruitless  dower. 
That  could  not  win  me  love.    Yet  once  again 
I  greet  it  proudly,  with  its  rushing  train 
Of  glorious  images.    They  throng,  they  press ; 


420  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

A  sudden  joy  lights  up  my  loneliness,  — 
I  shall  not  perish  all ! 

The  bright  work  grows 
Beneath  my  hand,  unfolding,  as  a  rose, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  to  beauty ;  line  by  line, 
I  fix  my  thought,  heart,  soul,  to  burn,  to  shine. 
Thro'  the  pale  marble's  veins.     It  grows  ;  and  now 
I  give  my  own  life's  history  to  thy  brow. 
Forsaken  Ariadne !  .  .  . 

Thou  shalt  have  fame !     Oh,  mockery !  give  the  reed 
Erom  storms  a  shelter ;  give  the  drooping  vine 
Something  round  which  its  tendrils  may  entwine ; 
Give  the  parch'd  flower  a  rain-drop,  and  the  meed 
Of  love's  kind  words  to  woman ! " 

Lady  Arabella  Stuart,  —  a  possible  heir  to  the  Englis! 
throne, — having  alarmed  the  cabinet  of  James  I.  b}^  a 
secret  marriage  with  "William  Seymour,  the  wedded  lovers 
were  immediately  imprisoned.  Seymour  eventual^  es- 
caped, but  Arabella  remained  in  her  dungeon  until  death 
released  her.  The  imagined  fluctuations  of  the  prisoner's  m 
thought  and  feelings  during  that  dreadful  imprisonment  in 
which  she  finally  lost  her  reason  are  touchingly  and  graph- 
ically expressed  in  the  poem  from  which  the  following 
extract  is  taken :  — 

"  Ye  are  from  dingle  and  fresh  glade,  ye  flowers ! 
By  some  kind  hand  to  cheer  my  dungeon  sent ; 
O'er  you  the  oak  shed  down  the  summer  showers, 
And  the  lark's  nest  was  where  your  bright  cups  bent. 
Quivering  to  breeze  and  rain-drop,  like  the  sheen 
Of  twilight  stars.     On  you  Heaven's  eye  hath  been, 
Thro'  the  leaves,  pouring  its  dark  sultry  blue 
Into  your  glowing  hearts ;  the  bee  to  you 
Hath  murmur'd,  and  the  rill.  —  My  soul  grows  faint 
With  passionate  yearning,  as  its  quick  dreams  paint 
Your  haunts  by  dell  and  stream,  —  the  green,  the  free, 
The  full  of  all  sweet  sound,  the  shw  from  me ! 

/    '^  ■    ■    ■    ■ 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  421 

There  went  a  swift  bird  singing  past  my  cell. 

O  Love  and  Freedom !  ye  are  lovely  things ! 
With  you  the  peasant  on  the  hills  may  dwell, 

And  by  the  streams;  but  I  —  the  blood  of  kings, 
A  proud  unmingling  river,  thro'  my  veins 
Flows  in  lone  brightness,  and  its  gifts  are  chains ! 

Death !  — what,  is  death  a  lock'd  and  treasured  thing. 
Guarded  by  swords  of  fire  ?     A  hidden  spring, 
A  fabled  fruit,  that  I  should  thus  endure. 
As  if  the  world  within  me  held  no  cure  1 
Wherefore  not  spread  free  wings  —  Heaven,  Heaven 
Control  these  thoughts.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Give  strength  to  pray. 
So  shall  their  dark  hosts  pass. 

The  storm  is  still'd, 

Father  in  Heaven !    Thou,  only  thou,  canst  sound 
The  heart's  great  deep,  with  floods  of  anguish  filled, 

For  human  line  too  fearfully  profound. 
Therefore,  forgive,  my  Father !  if  Thy  child 
Eock'd  on  its  heaving  darkness,  hath  grown  wild, 
And  sinn'd  in  her  despair ! " 

The  story  of  the  '*  Sicilian  Captive"  is  told  with  great 
force  and  sweetness,  and  is  perhaps  the  best  example  of 
that  blending  of  graceful  narrative,  pathetic  description, 
and  beautiful  imagery  in  which  Mrs.  Hemans  was  so  sin- 
gularly felicitous.  The  tale  is  of  the  rude  Norsemen,  who, 
having  taken  with  the  spoils  of  war  a  beautiful  Southern 
maiden,  after  the  Scalds  have  chanted  at  their  feast  in 
Runic  rhyme,  have  summoned  her  to  sing  to  them.  "  At 
the  warrior's  call,"  the  homesick  captive  stands  forth  in 
the  midst  of  that  frowning  hall,  and  holding  her  lyre  with 
''trembling  hand,"  she  thus  sings  for  her  rude  captors 
her  "  Swan-song"  of  that  beloved  and  foregone  Sicily : 

" '  They  bid  me  sing  of  thee,  mine  own,  my  sunny  land !  of  thee ! 
Am  I  not  parted  from  thy  shores  by  the  mournful  sounding  sea  ? 
Doth  not  thy  shadow  wrap  my  soul  1  in  silence  let  me  die, 
Li  a  voiceless  dream  of  thy  silvery  founts,  and  thy  pure,  deep  sapphire 

sky; 


422  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

How  should  thy  lyre  give  here  its  wealth  of  buried  sweetness  forth  ? 
Its  tones  of  summer's  breathings  born,  to  the  wild  winds  of  the 
north  ? 

" '  Yet  thus  it  shall  be  once,  once  more !  my  spirit  shall  awake. 
And  through  the  mists  of  death  shine  out,  my  country,  for  thy  sake ! 
That  I  may  make  thee  known,  with  all  the  beauty  and  the  light, 
And  the  glory  never  more  to  bless  thy  daughter's  yearning  sight ! 
Thy  woods  shall  whisper  in  my  song,  thy  bright  streams  warble  by. 
Thy  soul  flow  o'er  my  lips  again  —  yet  once,  my  Sicily ! 

"  *  There  are  blue  heavens  —  far  hence,  far  hence !  but,  oh !  their  glo- 
rious blue ! 
Its  very  night  is  beautiful,  with  the  hyacinth's  deep  hue ! 
It  is  above  my  own  fair  land,  and  round  my  laughing  home, 
And  arching  o'er  my  vintage  hills,  they  hang  their  cloudless  dome ; 
And  making  all  the  waves  as  gems,  that  melt  along  the  shore. 
And  steeping  happy  hearts  in  joy,  that  now  is  mine  no  more. 

"  *  And  there  are  haunts  in  that  green  land ;  oh !  who  may  dream  or 
tell 
Of  all  the  shaded  loveliness  it  hides  in  grot  and  dell  ? 
By  fountains  flinging  rainbow-spray  on  dark  and  glossy  leaves, 
And  bowers  wherein  the  forest  dove  her  nest  untroubled  weaves ; 
The  myrtle  dwells  there,  sending  round  the  richness  of  its  breath. 
And  the  violets  gleam  like  amethysts,  from  the  dewy  moss  beneath ! 

"  *  And  there  are  floating  sounds  that  fill  the  skies  through  night  and 
day,— 
Sweet  sounds !  the  soul  to  hear  them  faint  in  dreams  of  heaven 

away! 
They  wander  through  the  olive  woods,  and  o'er  the  shining  seas ; 
They  mingle  with  the  orange-scents  that  load  the  sleepy  breeze ; 
Lute,  voice,  and  bird  are  blending  there ;  —  it  were  a  bliss  to  die. 
As  dies  a  leaf  thy  groves  among,  my  flowery  Sicily ! 

" '  I  may  not  thus  depart  —  farewell !  yet  no,  my  country !  no ! 
Is  not  love  stronger  than  the  grave  1     I  feel  it  must  be  so ! 
My  fleeting  spirit  shall  o'ersweep  the  mountains  and  the  main. 
And  in  thy  tender  starlight  rove,  and  through  thy  woods  again. 
Its  passion  deepens  —  it  prevails  !  I  break  my  chain  —  I  come 
To  dwell  a  viewless  thing,  yet  blest,  in  thy  sweet  air,  my  home ! ' 


I 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  423 

"  And  her  pale  arms  dropp'd  the  ringing  lyre ; 
There  came  a  mist  o'er  her  eye's  wild  fire, 
And  her  dark  rich  tresses  in  many  a  fold, 
Loosed  from  their  braids,  down  her  bosom  rolled. 
Her  head  sank  back  on  the  rugged  wall, 
A  silence  fell  o'er  the  warrior  haU ; 
She  had  poured  out  her  soul  with  her  song's  last  tone; 
The  lyre  was  broken,  the  minstrel  gone ! " 

In  endeavoring  to  show  Mrs.  Hemans  at  her  best,  I 
have  quoted  from  her  poems  perhaps  too  freely,  but  must 
still  make  room  for  an  extract  from  an  epitaph  written  in 
good-humored  raillery  on  Mr.  W ,  a  celebrated  min- 
eralogist, who  at  the  time  made  one  of  a  party  of  visitors 
at  the  house  of  a  friend  where  the  poetess  was  staying ; 

•   "  His  fossils,  flints,  and  spars  of  every  hue, 
With  him,  good  reader,  here  lie  buried  too. 
Sweet  specimens !  which,  toiling  to  obtain, 
He  split  huge  cliffs,  like  so  much  wood,  in  twain. 
We  knew,  so  great  the  fuss  he  made  about  them. 
Alive  or  dead,  he  ne'er  could  do  without  them. 
So,  to  secure  soft  slumber  for  his  bones. 
We  paved  his  grave  with  all  his  favourite  stones. 
His  much-loved  hammer 's  resting  by  his  side ; 
Each  hand  contains  a  shell-fish  petrified  : 
His  mouth  a  piece  of  pudding-stone  incloses, 
And  at  his  feet  a  lump  of  coal  reposes ; 
Sure  he  was  born  beneath  some  lucky  planet,  — 
His  very  coffin-plate  is  made  of  granite." 

Mrs.  Hemans's  eas}^  facility  in  this  lively  style  of  com- 
position, as  displayed  in  this  epitaph,  and  in  one  equally 
humorous,  on  *'  The  Hammer  of  the  Same  Mineralogist," 
shows  her  genuine  Irish  wit ;  and  we  regret  that  she  has 
not  seen  fit  to  give  us  more  work  of  the  same  kind.  These 
epitaphs  and  her  "  Sheet  of  Forgeries  "  (scarcely  surpassed, 
in  its  way,  by  the  famous  "  Rejected  Addresses")  are  not 


424  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


included  in  her  printed  poems,  and  were  only  given  us  by 
her  biographer. 

In  conclusion,  it  must  be  said  of  Mrs.  Hemans  that  if 
she  had  not  been  great  as  a  poet,  she  would  still  take  high 
rank  as  a  gifted  woman.  Her  memory  is  said  to  have 
been  phenomenal ;  her  acquirements  were  large  and  vari- 
ous. In  English,  French,  German,  Italian,  and  Spanish 
literature  she  was  equally  at  home,  and  thoroughly  read  in 
history,  essay,  and  fiction.  Her  taste  for  music  amounted 
to  an  absolute  passion ;  and  on  both  harp  and  piano  she 
was  a  finished  performer.  She  evinced  decided  talent  for 
drawing ;  and  it  was  no  flatter}^  when  Walter  Scott  said 
to  her,  after  listening  to  her  music:  ''I  should  say  you 
had  too  many  gifts,  Mrs.  Hemans,  were  they  not  all  made 
to  give  pleasure  to  those  around  3'ou."  Though  gifted 
with  a  quick  sense  of  the  ludicrous  and  quite  equal  to  the 
keenest  sarcasm,  such  was  the  gentleness  of  her  sweet  nature 
that  it  was  said  "  no  sharp  or  scornful  speech  is  on  record 
against  her."  One  who  knew  her  long  and  well,  thus  en- 
thusiasticall}^  bears  testimony  to  the  moral  beauty  of  her 
character :  "  In  her  nature  there  were  no  faults  that  were 
not  better  in  themselves,  and  more  engaging,  than  the 
virtues  or  merits,  whatever  people  choose  to  call  them, 
of  most  others." 

After  Mrs.  Hemans  the  age  produced  no  very  eminent 
poetess  before  Mrs.  Browning,  though  many  respectable 
writers  of  verse  among  our  sex  appeared,  and  had  in 
their  day  their  meed  of  praise.  Cotemporary  with  her  was 
Joanna  Baillie,  who  in  the  drama  achieved  a  high  if  not 
an  enduring  reputation.  Hannah  More,  Mrs.  Tighe,  Mrs. 
Hunter,  Mrs.  Opie,  and  Mrs.  Barbauld  have  all  given  us 
poems,  some  of  them  carefully  written  and  highly  finished 
pieces ;  but  though  the  h3^mns  of  Mrs.  Barbauld  are  still 
valued  and  admired,  and  will  not  soon  be  consigned  to 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  425 

oblivion,  and  Miss  Baillie's  tragedies  have  been  by  the 
critics  pronounced  the  best  ever  written  by  a  woman 
(which  after  all  is  but  faint  praise),  in  the  highest  sense 
to  none  of  them  can  the  name  of  poet  be  awarded.  ^ 
Mrs.  Norton  has  more  of  true  poetic  genius  than  is  to 
be  found  in  all  these  writers  put  together,  and  in  our  own 
day  and  in  our  own  land  women  have  written  poems  that 
not  only  exceed  theirs  in  merit,  but  maj^  proudly  compare 
with  those  of  Mrs.  Hemans  and  Mrs.  Browning  (but, 
however,  of  living  poets  I  do  not  propose  to  write).  Of 
Miss  Landon,  generallj^  known  as  L.  E.  L.,  in  consequence 
of  having  first  published  with  her  initials  onl}^,  it  may 
safely  be  said  that  had  length  of  days  been  granted  her 
she  might  have  attained  a  secure  place  among  poets.  As 
it  was,  she  but  sang  a  few  mournful  and  incomplete  strains 
and  then  — 

"  Through  the  door  of  opal 

Toward  the  heavenly  people, 

Floated  on  a  minor  fine 

Into  the  full  chant  divine.** 

In  the  "  Improvisatrice  **  Miss  Landon  displays  much 
of  that  Intensity,  rich  exuberance,  and  passionate  fervor 
of  style  characteristic  of  Byron,  as  may  be  seen  in  this 
fragment :  — 

"  I  loved  him  as  young  genius  loves. 

When  its  own  wild  and  radiant  heaven 
Of  starry  thought  burns  with  the  light. 

The  love,  the  life,  by  passion  given. 
I  loved  him  too  as  woman  loves, 

Reckless  of  sorrow,  sin,  or  scorn  ; 
Life  had  no  evil  destiny 

That,  with  him,  I  could  not  have  borne ! 
I  had  been  nursed  in  palaces ; 

Yet  earth  had  not  a  spot  so  drear 
That  I  should  not  have  thought  a  home 

Li  Paradise,  had  he  been  near !  ** 


426  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


The  advent  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  (Mrs.  Browning)  about 
the  year  1809  seems  to  have  settled  the  question  as  to  the 
essential  masculineness  of  genius.  This  woman,  so  deli- 
cate and  diminutive  that  her  poet-husband  is  said  to  have 
drawn  her  portrait  when,  in  the  "  Flight  of  the  Duchess," 
he  sketched  "  the  smallest  lady  alive,"  was  not  only  of  gen- 
ius "  all  compact,"  but  as  remarkable  for  rugged  strength 
of  intellect,  force  of  expression,  and  scholarly  ability  as 
she  was  for  sweetness  of  temper,  tenderness  of  heart, 
depth  of  feeling,  and  purity  of  spirit.  She  is  aptly  de- 
scribed as  "  a  soul  of  fire  enclosed  in  a  shell  of  pearl." 

In  early  life  Elizabeth  Barrett  became  an  invalid,  and  in 
1838  was  suddenly  brought  to  the  very  brink  of  the  grave 
by  lung-disease.  In  1840,  while  slowly  recovering,  she  was 
again  prostrated  by  a  sudden  catastrophe,  —  the  death  by 
drowning  of  a  beloved  brother,  who  had  accompanied  her 
to  the  seaside,  and  of  whose  death  therefore  she  persisted 
in  considering  herself  the  cause.  Not  until  a  full  3'ear 
after  this  sad  event  had  she  recovered  strength  to  be  trans- 
ported to  London,  where  in  her  father's  house  she  re- 
mained for  five  long  years  a  prisoner,  and  a  helpless, 
almost  hopeless  invalid,  seeing  no  one  but  her  own  familj', 
restricted  to  a  darkened  room,  and  eagerly  reading  almost 
everything  worth  reading  in  almost  every  language.  In 
such  circumstances  inherent,  morbid  tendencies  would 
naturallj'^  strengthen,  and  a  manj^-sided,  enlarged  view 
of  life  could  not  have  been  gained;  but  a  more  favor- 
able condition  for  the  growth  of  the  spiritual  side  of  our 
nature  cannot  be  imagined.  It  was  during  these  years 
of  feebleness  and  suffering  that  some  of  her  best  work 
was  done. 

Here  Robert  Browning  first  saw  her,  his  — 

**  Lyric  love,  half  angel,  and  half  bird, 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desh-e." 


)ut    ll 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  427 

And  in  the  autumn  of  1846,  in  defiance  of  the  wishes  of 
her  devoted  father  (who  is  said  never  after  to  have  suf- 
fered her  name  to  be  mentioned  in  his  presence,  and  who 
died  unrelenting  and  unforgiving) ,  Elizabeth  Barrett  rose 
from  her  sick  bed  to  become  the  beloved  wife  of  Robert 
Browning. 

'^  Love  really  is  the  wizard  the  poets  have  called  him," 
said  Miss  Mitford,  on  hearing  how  the  invalid  had  borne 
the  fatigue  of  the  honeymoon  journey  to  Italy,  and  was 
not  only  improved  by  the  rash  effort,  but  completely 
"transformed."  "Love"  had  not  only  "justified  itself 
to  love,"  but  had  proved  itself  wiser  than  prudence.  A 
union  more  true  and  perfect  than  that  of  these  "  poets 
twain"  it  is  not  possible  to  imagine,  —  he  a  noble  tj'pe 
of  manly  power,  she  of  noble,  sensitive  womanhood.  In 
those  exquisite  love-songs  which  have  been  given  to  the 
world  in  the  delicate  disguise  of  "Portuguese  Sonnets," 
the  storj^  of  this  love  has  been  told.  Juliet,  that  liberal 
maiden,  exclaims, — 

"  My  bonnty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea 
My  love  as  deep,  .  .  . 

.  .  .  And  both  are  infinite/' 

Mrs.  Browning,  assuming,  on  the  contrary,  that  love  can 
be  measured^  is  equally  "  a  lavish  giver,"  as  this  exquisite 
sonnet  will  show.  It  is  the  finest  of  all  the  "  Portuguese 
Sonnets." 

"  How  do  I  love  thee  1     Let  me  count  the  ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
Por  the  ends  of  being  and  ideal  grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  right. 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 


428       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints.    I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life ;  and,  if  God  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death." 

These  "  English  thrushes  "  now  built  their  nest  in  the 
land  of  song,  art,  and  romance ;  and  for  fourteen  years 
Mrs.  Browning  lived  in  Florence  in  one  house,  looking 
out  from  Casa  Guidi  windows  upon  that  "•  clime  where 
gray  old  shadows  of  the  past  still  haunt  the  garish  sun- 
shine of  the  present."  There  she  is  pictured  for  us  :  "A 
slight  delicate  figure,  with  a  shower  of  dark  curls  falling 
on  either  side  of  a  most  expressive  face ;  large  tender 
eyes,  fringed  with  dark  lashes,  and  a  smile  like  a  sun- 
beam. .  .  .  Books  and  humanity,  and  great  deeds  and 
the  grand  questions  of  the  day,  were  ever  foremost  in  her 
thoughts  and  oftenest  on  her  lips.  She  never  made  an 
insignificant  remark.  One  never  dreamed  of  frivolities  in 
her  presence,  and  gossip  felt  itself  here  out  of  place.'* 
And  now  she  heard  "  the  nations  praising  her  far  off;" 
every  book  showed  an  increase  of  power.  Her  life  had 
been  crowned  with  motherhood ;  "  the  mother  of  the  beau- 
tiful child "  was  the  sweet  Italian  name  given  her.  And 
thus  in  Casa  Guidi  windows,  tender  and  serious  as  the 
Madonna  folding  in  her  arms  the  sinless  Child,  she  is  en- 
shrined forever.  But,  alas!  this  poet-soul  "kept  up  too 
much  light  under  its  ej^elids"  for  our  "night;"  and  at 
last,  when  summer  danced  over  the  vine-clad  hills,  and 
morn  was  lifting  her  drowsy  lids,  she  lay  fading  from 
the  dear  arms  of  that  love  whose  tender  ministration  had 
made  her 

"  Dying  bed  feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are." 

Her  soul  saw  the   far  day  breaking  over  the   "jasper 
sea."     "It  is  beautiful!"  she  said,  and  softly  — 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  429 

"  Passed  through  glory's  morning  gate 
To  walk  in  Paradise  ! " 

Her  going  home  was  but  six  days  of  suffering,  bravely 
borne ;  and  now,  "  listening  down  the  heart  of  things," 
we  hear  her  singing  still,  and  — 

"  Glory  to  God  —  to  God !  she  saith. 
Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth. 
And  life  is  perfected  by  Death ! " 

By  high  authority  Mrs.  Browning  has  been  termed  the 
greatest  of  English  "  female  poets,"  and  some  have  even 
boldly  placed  her  side  hy  side  with  the  laureate.  What- 
ever may  be  the  justness  of  these  claims,  we  must  admit 
her  to  be  the  great  genius,  if  not  the  great  poet.  Her 
inspiration  is  almost  painfully  intense  ;  and  if  she  has  not 
attained  to  highest  excellence  in  poetic  art,  it  is  rather 
to  be  imputed  to  her  odd  views  in  regard  to  the  techni- 
calities of  verse,  and  to  the  one-sided  development  of  her 
nature,  than  to  the  paucity  of  her  genius.  The  artist 
who  would  create  for  all  time  should  cultivate  form  no 
less  than  spirit,  and  should  touch  life  at  every  point, 
and  thus  be  enabled  to  give  to  the  world  healthy  out-door 
growth  rather  than  hot-bed  miracles.  A  poet's  song, 
while  it  may  accord  with  the  subtlest  harmonies  of  the 
seraphim,  should  still  be  sweet  as  the  singing  of  birds 
with  earth-born  cadences. 

Mrs.  Browning  was  born  in  1 809  ;  she  became  a  writer 
in  1819,  and  a  publisher  in  1826.  Her  first  volume,  an 
"Essay  on  Mind,"  written  in  the  style  of  Pope's  "Essay 
on  Man,'*  she  afterward  withdrew  from  print.  Her  next 
work,  "Prometheus  Bound,"  translated  from  ^schylus, 
shared  a  hke  fate  with  her  first  venture  in  authorship. 
Her  subjects  were  various ;  and  she  seldom  reproduces 
her  thought,  as  Mrs.  Hemans  too  often  does.     "  The  Lay 


430       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

of  the  Brown  Rosary,"  ^'IsobePs  Child,"  and  "Bertha  in 
the  Lane,"  are  perhaps  the  most  widely  popular  of  her 
poems.  "The  Rhyme  of  Duchess  Ma}""  may  be  consid- 
ered one  of  her  very  best.  Ruskin  considers  her  Duchess 
"the  finest  female  character  brought  into  literature  since 
Shakespeare's  day."  "The  Cry  of  the  Children,"  "The 
Ragged  School,"  and  "The  Runaway  Slave  at  Pilgrim's 
Point "  are  the  most  humanitarian  and  the  most  pathetic 
of  her  poems.  "  The  Vision  of  Poets"  is  eminentl}'  char- 
acteristic, and  deserves  a  high  place  in  the  catalogue  of 
her  verse.  "Lady  Geraldine,"  a  poem  covering  thirty 
printed  pages,  is  remarkable  for  the  rapidity  of  its  pro- 
duction, having,  it  is  said,  been  written  in  the  almost  in- 
credibly short  space  of  twelve  hours !  Some  of  its  char- 
acters are  not  quite  truthfully  conceived ;  and  Geraldine, 
at  the  conclusion,  poses  too  long  "  *twixt  the  purple  lattice- 
curtains,"  and  "  smiles  in  slow  silence"  until  she  becomes 
quite  trying,  as  she  approaches  her  lover  at  a  pace  alto- 
gether too  measured  and  ghostl}'  for  a  mere  mortal.  The 
poem  is  but  little  marred  by  Mrs.  Browning's  peculiar 
infelicities  of  taste,  and  is  interesting  in  narrative,  and 
altogether  one  of  her  most  pleasing  productions.  "The 
Lost  Bower"  is  full  of  life,  perfume,  and  color.  "  Casa 
Guidi  Windows  "  is  one  of  her  more  vigorous  works.  It 
is  neither  romantic  nor  idyllic,  but  teeming  with  earnest 
matter,  and  instinct  with  marvellous  clearness  of  logical  in- 
sight in  its  treatment  of  the  political  problems  of  the  day. 

Some  of  Mrs.  Browning's  sonnets  have  scarcely  been 
equalled  since  Milton's;  and  her  Eve  in  the  "Drama  of 
Exile,"  has  been  pronounced  "superior  to  the  Eve  in 
'  Paradise  Lost.' "  This,  however,  is  exaggerated  praise. 
Fancy  the  first  woman  talking  in  this  fashion,  — 

**  By  my  percipiency  of  sin  and  fall 
In  melancholy  of  humiliant  thoughts,"  — 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  431 

or  discoursing  of  the  "precedence  of  earth's  adjusted 
uses,"  ''  the  visionary  stairs  of  time,"  the  "  steep  genera- 
tions," and  "  supernatural  thunders  ! "  The  later  poems 
of  Mrs.  Browning,  though  they  exhibit  an  increase  of 
power,  are  by  no  means  her  best. 

*' Aurora  Leigh,"  a  modern  novel  in  blank  verse,  dis- 
cussing many  of  the  social  questions  of  the  day,  and 
revealing  the  writer's  experience  of  life,  has  a  particular 
application  to  the  questions  which  have  been  started  in 
regard  to  the  nature  and  position  of  woman.  It  expresses 
the  complete  development  of  the  life  of  a  woman  and  an 
artist,  and  illustrates  the  theory  that  the  largest  mental 
culture  does  not  unfit  woman  for  the  tenderest  relations 
of  life ;  that  the  highest  possible  intellectual  development 
results  in  the  highest  possible  social  happiness.  Aurora, 
though  true  artist,  is  not  the  less  true  woman,  and  "  very 
womanh' "  at  last.  She  lays  the  poet's  crown  from  off  her 
brow,  and  chooses  the  love  that  is  sweeter  than  fame. 

"Aurora  Leigh"  —  as  far  as  perfection  of  internal 
structure  goes  —  is  Mrs.  Browning's  greatest  poem.  It 
abounds  in  striking  and  graphic  description,  in  trenchant 
portraiture  of  persons,  and  evinces  throughout  that 
strength  of  thought  and  terseness  of  expression  which 
have  sometimes  been  thought  peculiar  to  man.  Yet, 
great  poem  as  it  is,  "Aurora  Leigh"  is  notoriousl}' rife 
with  the  blemishes  to  which  allusion  has  already  been 
made.  Taste  is  barbarously-  sacrificed  to  truth  of  descrip- 
tion. The  figures  are  often  taken  from  objects  which 
excite  our  loathing.  Lady  Waldemar  is  a  ghoul-like 
exaggeration.  The  stor}^  of  Marian  Erie  —  more  improb- 
able than  anything  out  of  Munchausen  —  is  so  thoroughl}^ 
heart-sickening  that  even  the  fair,  skyey  poet-thought 
cannot  make  it  presentable.  As  an  artistic  work  the 
poem  is  a  failure.     The  story  abounds  in  contradictions. 


432       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

The  figures  are  sometimes  absurd  and  are  often  re- 
peated, especially'  those  which  are  repugnant.  The  stj-le 
is  frequently  diffuse  and  occasionally  stilted,  as  in  this 
passage :  — 

"  ShaU  I  hope 
To  speak  my  poems  in  mysterious  tune 
With  man  and  Nature,  —  with  the  lava-lymph 
That  trickles  from  successive  galaxies 
Still  drop  hy  drop  adown  the  finger  of  God, 
In  still  new  worlds  1 " 

Her  figures  too  are  often  bad  and  far-fetched  ;  as  here : 

"  The  goats  whose  beards  grow  sprouting  down  towards 
Hell,  against  God's  separative  judgment  hour." 

There  is  in  the  poem  a  shockingly  inartistic  mixture  of  the 
prosaic  and  poetic,  as  comparing  a  disappointed  lover 
devoting  his  life  to  purposes  of  philanthropy  to  "  a  man 
drowning  a  dog."  Verbal  finish,  though  far  less  impor- 
tant than  internal  structure,  is  one  of  the  acknowledged 
<;onditions  of  immortal  verse;  and  "Aurora  Leigh"  has 
been  happily  compared  to  "  the  century  plant,  —  beautiful 
for  the  thought  that  the  entire  age  has  been  needed  for 
its  production,  and  no  less  enjoyable  for  the  certainty  that 
it  3^et  will  very  shortly  wither  before  our  eyes  ! "  In  these 
four  lines  there  is  a  world  of  suggestion  to  the  rough- 
handed  reformist :  — 

"  Disturb  our  nature  never,  for  our  work, 
Nor  count  our  right  hands  stronger  for  being  hoofs. 
The  man  most  man,  with  tenderest  human  hands. 
Works  best  for  men,  —  as  Christ  in  Nazareth." 

Another  though  far  less  considerable  blemish  in  Mrs. 
Browning's  poetry  is  the  frequent  recurrence  in  her  dic- 
tion of  obsolete  words.    The  English  of  the  nineteenth 


"FEMALE  POETRY/*  433 

centuiy  is  in  manj^  respects  a  different  language  from 
that  of  the  fourteenth,  or  even  of  the  sixteenth  century ; 
and  no  writer,  however  much  he  may  lean  toward  the 
olden-time,  should  use  a  vocabulary  that,  having  ceased  to 
fall  from  our  lips,  is  not  obvious  to  ordinary  readers.  Old 
poet-words  there  be,  that,  though  by  common  consent  they 
have  dropped  out  of  prose,  should  never  "  leave  off  sing- 
ing r  Yet "  geste,"  "  blee,"  "  eke,"  ''  certes,"  "  natheless," 
and  "  wis,"  are  but  musty  old  words,  and  let  us  leave  them 
where  they  belong,  in  the  cob  webbed  garret  of  the  Past. 
One  can  afford  to  read  Chaucer  and  Spenser  with  a  glos- 
sary;  but  let  nineteenth-century  thought  be  dressed  in 
nineteenth-century  costume. 

Admiring  Mrs.  Browning  as  a  woman,  and  glorying  in 
her  genius,  fidelit}'  to  art  still  demands  of  us  a  protest 
against  her  inelegances.  By  no  means  insisting  upon  that 
fastidious  nicety  which  weakens  poetic  diction  by  rejecting 
every  word  or  expression  that  is  not  powdered  and  per- 
fumed to  suit  the  ''  curled  darlings'^  of  literary  and  criti- 
cal "  upper- ten-dom,"  we  cannot  hold  that  poetry  gains 
enough  in  force  to  balance  its  loss  in  propriety,  by  such 
passages  as  these  from  "  Aurora  Leigh"  :  — 

"  I  'd  rather  take  the  wind-side  of  the  stews 
Than  touch  such  a  woman  with  my  finger-ends.** 

"...  She  lied  and  stole 
And  spat  into  my  love's  pure  pyx 
The  rank  saliva  of  her  soul." 

"  Cheek  to  cheek  with  him 
Who  stinks  since  Friday.** 

"  That 's  coarse ;  you  '11  say 
I  'm  talking  garlic." 

If,  as  Dr.  Holmes  asserts,  "Poetry  is  the  description 
of  the  beautiful  in  language  which  harmonizes  with  the 

28 


434       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

beautiful,"  the  above  lines  are  not  poetry.  They  are 
the  mishaps  of  the  poet,  —  blots  on  her  pages  which  we 
long  to  erase,  and  leave  the  poems  clean  as  her  own 
white  soul. 

For  that  fantastic  strain  of  imagination  which  some- 
times unwittingly  grazes  the  absurd,  the  forced  seclusion 
and  introversion  of  Mrs.  Browning's  maidenhood  is  no 
doubt  answerable.  Had  her  mind  been  shaped  in  the  stir 
and  bustle  of  human  action,  she  would  doubtless  have 
spent  less  strength  on  the  psychological  and  the  mj'stical, 
and  would  have  chosen  her  themes  differently.  Her  errors 
of  judgment  are  to  be  excused  b}^  her  natural  impulsive- 
ness and  that  strength  of  will  which  led  to  her  insistent 
use  or  forced  rhymes  of  two  syllables  in  the  face  of  all 
remonstrance ;  as,  — 

"  You  have  done  a 
Consecrated  little  Una." 

The  frequent  harshness  of  her  more  orthodox  rhymes, 
and  that  grating  use  of  the  adjective,  —  as  "  God's  divine," 
"  your  human,"  —  are  to  be  excused  by  her  innate  lack  of 
''ear,"  as  deplorable  and  as  insurmountable  as  "color- 
blindness." She  had  no  possible  perception  of  these  harsh 
prosaic  lapses.  In  character  she  does  not  distinctly  indi- 
vidualize. In  depicting  type  she  is  far  more  successful. 
In  ''Aurora  Leigh"  we  have,  to  start  with,  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing as  Aurora.  Then,  all  the  good  characters  in  the 
book  are  more  or  less  repetkions  of  Aurora.  Marian 
Erie,  the  daughter  of  a  tramping  poacher,  talks  and  be- 
haves as  high-flown  and  properly  as,  in  the  same  situation, 
Aurora  would  have  talked  and  behaved.  Lord  Howe, 
Vincent  Carrington,  and  even  that  ubiquitous  person, 
Mr.  Smith,  have  each  a  dash  of  Aurora ;  and  Romney 
himself  is  but  another  Aurora  in  male  attire,  and  with 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  435 

other  ends  and  purposes.  Lady  Waldemar,  who  misses 
being  either  a  woman  or  a  fiend,  having  been  painted  too 
cold-bloodedly  diabolical  for  the  one,  and  too  contemptibly 
human  for  the  other,  is  nevertheless  often  a  mouth-piece 
for  Aurora's  own  fine-spun  sentences.  Aurora's  aunt 
who  ' '  hked  instructed  piety  "  and 

"...  thanked  God  (and  sighed)  that 
English  women  were  models  to  the  universe," 

being  but  the  typical  matter-of-fact  English  lady,  though 
perhaps  slightly  exaggerated,  is  life-like  and  fine. 

And  now,  with  all  these  hindrances  to  her  poetical  per- 
fection, no  one  can  deny  that  Mrs.  Browning  has  done 
more  in  poetry  than  any  woman,  living  or  dead.  She 
has  even  surpassed,  with  one  exception,  English  cotem- 
porary  poets  of  the  other  sex.  Her  best  poems  —  in 
conception  and  spirit,  if  not  alwaj^s  in  execution  —  are  in 
the  highest  rank  of  art.  They  are  marked  by  strength  of 
passion,  by  intensit}'  of  feeling,  and  sometimes  b}^  felicity 
of  expression.  In  her  verse  she  often  displays  vigorous 
condensation  of  thought  and  forceful  imagination.  If  she 
has  in  her  stj'le  great  faults,  she  has  greater  merits.  If 
her  figures  are  sometimes  too  bald  and  grotesque,  we  often 
forgive  their  singularity  for  the  sake  of  their  aptitude.  In 
exquisite  word-painting  she  is  almost  unrivalled  ;  her  meta- 
phors are  rich,  pointed,  and  abundant.  Nature,  art,  mj'th- 
olog}",  history,  literature,  holy  writ,  and  everj'-da}"  life 
furnish  her  illustrations.  Her  satire  is  keen,  but,  as  has 
been  happily  remarked,  ''it  is  like  wormwood,  whole- 
somely bitter."  She  is  the  first  poet  of  her  sex,  —  the 
Milton  among  women ! 

Mrs.  Browning  has  been  designated  as  embod3'ing  more 
intensely  than  any  of  her  compeers  the  Spirit  of  the 


436  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Present.  May  we  not  rather  say  of  the  Future  ?  Was 
she  not  ever  — 

"  Stretching  past  the  known  and  seen,  to  reach 
The  archetypal  beauty  out  of  sight "  % 

Her  verse  throbs  with  "  the  still,  sad  music  of  humanity." 
The  suffering  and  the  happy,  the  sinning  and  aspiring, 
share  alike  her  sympathy.  Her  theology  was  not  learned 
in  the  schools.  Though  nominally  of  the  (so-called) 
evangelical  faith,  in  spirit  she  belonged  only  to  that 
mystic  Church  which  has  no  head  but  the  Infinite  God. 
With  her  there  was  always  '  *  open  vision ;  "  and  seeing 
God  face  to  face,  she  needed  not  the  meagre  go-betweens 
of  form  and  creed  to  put  her  at  one  with  him. 

To  Itrs.  Browning  poetry  was  the  grand  business  of 
life,  —  a  religion.  '•'  As  serious  a  thing  to  me  as  life,"  were 
her  own  words :  thus  she  confesses,  — 

"...  If  heads 
That  hold  a  rhythmic  thought  must  ache  perforce, 
For  my  part,  I  choose  headaches." 

Every  poem  is  wrought  to  an  intense  white  heat  in  the 
glowing  forge  of  her  soul.  Her  verses  ache  with  thought, 
—  "swept  as  angels  do  their  wings,  with  cadence  up 
the* blue."     She  realizes  her  own  description  of  a  poet: 

"...  Broadly  spreading 
The  golden  immortalities  of  his  soul 
On  natures  lorn  and  poor  of  such." 

No  wonder  that  the  frail  body  refused  at  last  to  bear  the  bur- 
den of  the  great  brain !  And  now,  on  earth,  her  singing  is 
*'  all  done." 

"  She  has  seen  the  mystery  hid 
Under  Egypt's  pyramid 
By  those  eyelids  pale  and  close 
Now  she  knows  what  Rhamses  knows." 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  437 

*'  Aurora  Leigh,"  faulty  as  it  is,  is  richly  studded  with 
gems.     Here  is  a  fragment  that  in  its  way  is  perfect :  — 

"  Nor  would  you  find  withm  a  rosier  flushed 
Pomegranate.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  There  he  lay  upon  his  back, 
The  yearling  creature,  warm  and  moist  with  life 
To  the  bottom  of  his  dimples,  —  to  the  ends 
Of  the  lovely  tumbled  curls  about  his  face ; 
For  since  he  had  been  covered  over-much 
To  keep  him  from  the  light-glare,  both  his  cheeks 
Were  hot  and  scarlet  as  the  first  live  rose 
The  shepherd's  heart  ebbed  away  into 
The  faster  for  his  love.     And  love  was  here 
As  instant :  in  the  pretty  baby-mouth, 
Shut  close ;  .  .  . 

The  little  naked  feet  drawn  up  the  way 
Of  nestled  birdlings ;  everything  so  soft 
And  tender,  —  to  the  tiny  holdfast  hands 
Which,  closing  on  a  finger  into  sleep, 
Had  kept  the  mould  of 't.  .  .  . 


The  light  upon  his  eyelids  pricked  them  wide. 

He  saw  his  mother's  face,  accepting  it 

In  change  for  heaven  itself  with  such  a  smile 

As  might  have  weU  been  learned  there,  never  moved 

But  smiled  on  in  a  drowse  of  ecstasy. 

So  happy  (half  with  her,  and  half  with  heaven) 

He  could  not  have  the  trouble  to  be  stirred. 

But  smiled  and  lay  there.    Like  a  rose  I  said  ? 

As  red  and  still  indeed  as  any  rose, 

That  blows  in  all  the  silence  of  its  leaves, 

Content,  in  blowing,  to  fulfil  its  life." 

And  here  is  another  passage  fine  and  true  enough  to  be 
set  beside  some  of  Shakespeare's :  — 

"...  *T  is  too  easy  to  go  mad 
And  ape  a  Bourbon  in  a  crown  of  straws  : 


438  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

The  thing 's  too  common. 

Many  fervent  souls 
Strike  rhyme  on  rhyme,  who  would  strike  steel  on  steel, 
If  steel  had  offered,  in  a  restless  heat 
Of  doing  something.    Many  tender  souls 
Have  strung  their  losses  on  a  rhyming  thread 
As  children  cowslips :  the  more  pains  they  take 
The  work  more  withers.     Young  men,  ay,  and  maids. 
Too  often  sow  their  wild  oats  in  tame  verse. 
Before  they  sit  down  under  their  own  vine. 
And  live  for  use.    Alas !  near  aU  the  birds 
WiU  sing  at  dawn  ;  and  yet  we  do  not  take 
The  chaffering  swallow  for  the  holy  lark." 

Of  Mrs.  Browning's  shorter  poems,  apart  from  the 
'*  Sonnets,"  the  verses  on  Cowper's  grave  are  the  most 
perfect.  They  were  written  before  the  poetess  had  ven- 
tured on  her  later  bold  departure  from  established  critical 
rules ;  and  the  diction  is,  consequentl}",  in  beautiful  accord 
with  the  sentiment.  A  few  stanzas  of  this  admirable  piece 
are  subjoined :  — 

"  It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned  may  feel  the  heart's  decaying. 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep  amid  their  praying. 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness  as  low  as  silence  languish  ; 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

"  O  poets,  from  a  maniac's  tongue  was  poured  the  deathless  singing ! 
O  Christians,  at  your  cross  of  hope  a  hopeless  soul  was  clinging ! 
0  men,  this  man,  in  brotherhood  your  weary  paths  beguiling. 
Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died  while  ye  were 
smiling  I 

"  And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read  through  dimming  tears  his 

story. 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell,  and  darkness  on  the  glory, 
And  how  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds  and  wandering  lights 

departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so  broken-hearted. 


"FEMALE  POETRY."  4S9 

"  He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's  higU  vocation, 
And  bow  tlie  meekest  Christian  down  in  meeker  adoration. 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or  good  forsaken, 
Named  softly  as  the  household  name  of  one  whom  God  hath  taken/* 

In  front  of  the  house  in  Florence  where  Mrs.  Browning 
wrote  and  died,  a  marble  tablet  has  been  erected  by  the 
Italians  as  a  grateful  memorial  of  one  who  ''  by  her  song, 
created  a  golden  link  between  Italy  and  England." 


440       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  KEATS. 


THE  poetry  of  the  period  under  consideration  dis- 
covers great  variety,  both  in  thought  and  style. 
Different  schools  had  arisen,  each  representing  peculiar 
characteristics  of  sentiment  and  diction.  All  appear  to 
have  agreed  in  rejecting  that  enslavement  of  ideas  to 
rhythm  and  metre  enounced  by  the  schools  of  which  Pope 
and  Goldsmith  were  representatives ;  yet  each  sought  to 
refine  and  elevate  by  widely  diverging  methods. 

Of  the  new  generation  of  poets  Lord  Byron  rose  first. 
For  a  while  he  assumed  the  dictatorship  of  poetry,  was 
alternately  flattered  and  condemned,  and  at  length  super- 
seded by  the  Lake  poets,  who,  going  back  to  the  Eliza- 
bethan era  for  precedent,  opened  a  new  path  for  poetic 
inspiration  by  disregarding  estabhshed  metrical  rules. 

While  this  school  was  slowly  overcoming  critical  pre- 
judices, and  gaining  ''  by  inches,"  as  it  were,  popular  es- 
teem, a  third  school  appeared,  derisively  called  by  its 
cotemporary  enemies  the  ''  Cockney  School," —  poets  who 
not  only  rejected  the  ancient  models  of  poetry,  but  were 
radical  reformists  in  morals,  society,  and  government. 

Of  this  school,  Keats  has  been  termed  the  martyr, 
Shelley  the  hope,  and  Hunt  is  said  to  have  proposed  to 
himself  the  glory  of  heralding  this  approaching  era  which 
should  eclipse  the  fairest  periods  of  poetical  history ;  for 
long  before  the  appearance  of  either  Shelley  or  Keats, 
Leigh  Hunt  had,  by  both  verse  and  prose,  established 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  KEATS.  441 

his  claim  to  the  attention  of  the  world.  For  more  than 
half  a  centur}'  he  occupied  a  conspicuous,  if  not  a  fore- 
most, rank  among  the  literati  of  England. 

As  the  descendant  of  American  parentage,  and  a  life- 
long consistent  adherent  to  what  we  call  liberal  principles, 
—  what  in  England  are  called  radical,  —  he  has  no  slight 
claim  to  our  consideration.  His  admirable  "Autobiog- 
raphy," presenting  a  perfect  ke}^  to  his  feelings  and  pre- 
judices, and  illustrating  the  weakness  and  strength  of  his 
character  as  no  posthumous  memoir  could  have  done,  was 
issued  within  a  year  of  the  close  of  his  life.  It  has  made 
him  more  widely  known  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  giv- 
ing, as  it  does,  a  true  impression  of  the  actual  man,  who 
is  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  conception  one  forms  of 
him  through  his  works. 

The  poet  was  born  at  Southgate,  1784.  His  ancestors 
for  several  generations  were  natives  of  Barbadoes.  His 
great-grandfather,  grandfather,  and  father  were  all  clerg}- 
men  of  the  Established  Church  of  England.  His  mother 
was  of  Quaker  descent,  —  a  daughter  of  a  wealthy  Phila- 
delphia merchant.  Hunt  was  a  sickly  child,  and  the  vil- 
lage doctor  sagely  predicted  that  he  would  die  an  idiot 
before  he  was  fifteen.  In  spite  of  this  cheerful  prophecy 
the  poet,  through  the  watchful  care  and  solicitude  of  his 
good  mother,  grew  to  a  fine  healthy  boyhood,  and  in 
1792  was  admitted  a  student  at  Christ's  Hospital,  where 
his  school-days  were  passed  with  Coleridge  and  Lamb. 

After  leaving  school,  Hunt  turned  his  attention  to  the 
unsubstantial  profession  which  he  had  determined  to  fol- 
low,—  poetry  and  literature.  In  1802  appeared  his  first 
volume  of  verses,  published  b}^  his  father,  which  he  agrees 
with  every  one  else  in  calling  wretched.  Next  appeared 
his  prose  essays,  mainly  confined  to  theatrical  criticism ; 
and  though  little  better  than  his  verses,  they  gained  for 


442  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

him  a  species  of  popularity,  and  be  became  quite  a  lion 
among  the  Engiisli  literati. 

He  now  devoted  himself  earnestly  to  books  ;  and  from 
Voltaire,  whom  he  warmly-  admired,  he  imbibed  those  rev- 
olutionar}-  ideas  which  lost  him  favor  with  the  leading 
literary  celebrities,  and  brought  the  Government  about  his 
ears.  For  a  printed  libel  on  the  Prince  Regent  —  which 
would,  it  has  been  asserted,  in  Elizabeth's  day  have 
brought  his  head  to  the  block  —  the  poet,  after  a  careful 
trial  at  the  judicial  bar,  along  with  his  brother,  was  sent 
to  prison  for  two  years.  A  finer  picture  of  adversity 
sweetened  by  the  devices  of  a  blithe,  beautj-loving  soul 
has  never  been  drawn  than  in  this  description  of  Hunt's 
prison-life,  taken  from  his  "  Autobiography." 

*'  I  papered  the  walls,"  he  says  (referring  to  his  room  in  the 
Prison  Infirmary,  where,  owing  to  ill  health,  he  was  fortunately 
domiciled),  —  "I  papered  the  walls  with  a  trellis  of  roses;  I 
had  the  ceiling  covered  with  clouds  and  sky ;  the  barred  win- 
dows were  screened  with  Venetian  blinds;  and  when  my  book- 
cases were  set  up,  with  their  busts  and  flowers,  and  a  piano- 
forte made  its  appearance,  perhaps  there  was  not  a  handsomer 
room  on  that  side  the  water.  Charles  Lamb  used  to  declare 
that  there  was  no  other  such  room  except  in  a  fairy  tale. 

**  There  was  a  little  yard  outside,  belonging  to  a  neighboring 
yard. 

"  This  yard  I  shut  in  with  green  palings,  adorned  it  with  a 
trellis,  bordered  it  with  a  thick  bed  of  earth  from  a  nursery, 
and  even  contrived  to  have  a  grass-plot. 

*'  The  earth  I  filled  with  flowers  and  young  trees.  There 
was  an  apple-tree  from  which  I  managed  to  get  a  pudding  the 
second  year.  As  to  my  flowers,  they  were  allowed  to  be  per- 
fect. A  poet  from  Derbyshire  [Mr.  Moore]  told  me  he  had 
seen  no  such  heart's-ease.'* 

Happy  poet,  who  could  grow  heart*s-ease  where  a  less 
sunny-hearted    and  more  prosaic    captive    would    have 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  KEATS.  443 

planted  rue  or  nightshade.  Here  the  sensuous  artist, 
with  that  warm  runlet  of  West  Indian  blood  keeping  per- 
petual holida}^  in  his  veins,  his  fine  taste,  romantic  fancy, 
and  child-love  of  flowers,  spirited  away  from  the  Babelish 
world  and  its  "  carking  cares,"  was  perhaps  for  the  only 
time  in  his  life  in  his  true  element. 

Hunt  was  born  rather  to  nurse  poetical  fancies  than 
to  apply  himself  steadily  to  worldly  business ;  and  in 
the  rough  battle  of  life  he  was  ever  discomfited.  His 
friends,  failing  in  their  efforts  to  obtain  for  him  a  pension, 
resorted  to  amateur  theatrical  performances,  as  another 
method  of  relieving  his  poverty.  Dickens  and  Jerrold 
were  among  the  actors ;  and  the  result  was  pecuniarily 
a  success. 

In  1859  Leigh  Hunt  passed  forever  from  these  weary 
buffetings  of  misfortune,  — let  us  hope  to  a  region  where 
the  adverse  gales,  even  here  "tempered  to  the  shorn 
lamb,"  are  lulled  to  an  eternal  calm. 

The  character  of  Hunt,  notwithstanding  its  alloy  of 
self-conceit  and  eccentricity,  is  one  toward  which  we  are 
irresistibl}^  attracted.  His  enthusiasm,  love  of  humor, 
and  kindly  temper,  the  genial  friendliness  of  his  nature, 
and  (above  all)  his  warm,  loving  heart,  contrast  finelj- 
with  the  cold,  sarcastic,  and  worldly-minded  nature  of 
B3Ton,  —  at  one  time  his  closest  friend. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  speaks  of  Leigh  Hunt  with  enthusiasm  in 
her  "  Letters,"  though  her  Scotch  thrift  and  prudence  seem 
to  have  been  deeplj'  outraged  by  the  "  waste  and  misman- 
agement "  going  on  in  his  household.  Thus  she  writes : 
''  Still  prettier  were  Leigh  Hunt's  little  nights  with  us ;  he 
has  the  figure  and  bearing  of  the  man  of  a  perfectl}'  grace- 
ful, spontaneously  original,  dignified,  and  attractive  kind." 
One  feels  in  her  description  of  his  attire  that  it  must 
have  been  not  unlike  his  poetrj".     *' He  came,"  she  tells 


444  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

us,  ''  alwaj-s  rather  scrupulousl}^,  though  most  simplj^  and 
modestly  dressed."  Carlj'le  himself  grimly  accorded  to 
him  the  name  of  "  Kind  of  Talking  Nightingale." 

Leigh  Hunt's  affectionate  nature  was  alive  almost  in 
death.  He  spent  his  last  breath  in  asking  of  the  welfare 
of  his  beloved  ones,  and  in  sending  love  and  messages  to 
the  absent.  He  died  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  the  sur- 
vivor, by  many  years,  of  the  two  poets  with  whom  he  is 
associated.  To  the  last  he  is  said,  even  in  outward  form, 
"  to  have  forcibl}^  recalled  Shelle^^'s  fine  picture  of  him  in 
his  '  Elegy  on  Keats,'  written  nearly  forty  years  before  "  : 

"  What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  1 

Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown  1 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed, 

In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 
The  heavy  heart  heavy  without  a  moan  ? 

If  it  be  he,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise. 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  departed  one; 

Let  me  not  vex  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice." 

The  characteristics  of  his  poetry  are  sprightly  fancy, 
animated  description,  and  quaint  originalitj^,  in  a  style 
which  he  has  made  his  own,  and  in  which,  with  many 
imitators,  he  has  been  pronounced  "without  a  rival." 
His  two  greatest  works  are  the  ''Legend  of  Florence" 
and  the  "  Story  of  Rimini."  The  latter  poem,  published 
in  1816,  has  given  him  a  place  of  his  own  as  distinct  as 
that  of  any  other  poetical  writer  of  his  day ;  and  much 
that  he  has  produced  is  brilliant  either  with  wit  and  humor 
or  with  tenderness  and  beaut3\ 

Critics  have  praised  Leigh  Hunt's  modernizations  of 
Chaucer,  and  have  said  of  him  that  "no  modern  poet 
has  so  entered  into  the  true  spirit  of  the  father  of  our 
poetry."      We  have  unhappily  fallen  upon  a  time  when 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND   KEATS.  445 

that  mental  calisthenics  by  which  the  meaning  of  a  poet 
is  wrenched  from  his  verse  is  far  more  attractive  to  the 
multitude  than  the  poem  itself.  By  this  fad  of  the  hour 
the  appetite  for  poetry  proper  is  no  doubt  vitiated  ;  and 
Leigh  Hunt,  "  piping  but  as  the  linnet  sings,"  his  verse 
in  structure  almost  perfect,  but  clear  and  simple  and  with- 
out the  least  spice  of  riddle  or  conceit,  seems  but  a  tame 
poet  beside  the  "maker  and  moulder"  of  this  involved 
song.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  his  themes  are  often  sim- 
ple, and  having  no  higher  purpose  than  that  of  a  moment's 
entertainment ;  but  sometimes,  as  a  moral  teacher,  he  has 
forcibly  appealed  to  the  universal  heart  and  conscience. 
We  could  ill  spare  from  our  literature  his  "  Abou  Ben 
Adhem,"  which  contains  "  in  a  nut-shell"  the  entire  creed 
of  social  ethics.  Custom  cannot  stale  a  thing  so  perfect 
in  structure  and  so  divine  in  sentiment. 

"  Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace. 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room. 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom. 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 

"  Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

*  What  writest  thou  ? '    The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And  with  a  voice  made  all  of  sweet  accord 
Answered,  *  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord.* 

*  And  is  mine  one  ?  '  said  Abou.    *  Nay,  not  so,* 
Replied  the  angel. 

"  Abou  spoke  more  low. 
But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  '  I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fellow-men.* 
The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night. 
It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blest, 
And,  lo,  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest !  '* 


446  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Craik  has  happily  said  of  Leigh  Hunt,  "  Into  whatever 
he  has  wi'itten  he  has  put  a  living  soul ;  "  and  in  some  of 
his  best  pieces  we  find  not  onl}-  perfection  of  versification, 
but  originality  of  genius.  He  has  at  least  given  us  to 
drink  of  the  "  well  of  English  undefiled."  In  his  prose 
he  is,  in  his  own  way,  only  excelled  by  Charles  Lamb ; 
and  as  a  true  poet  his  claim  is  beyond  dispute.  Here  is 
an  unpretentious  sonnet ;  but  who,  in  fourteen  lines,  has 
better  suggested  the  wisdom  of  prizing  our  ''blessings" 
ere  "they  take  their  flight"?  It  is  entitled  "An  Angel 
in  the  House  "  :  — 


"  How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright. 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who  have  never 
Been  dead  indeed  —  as  we  shall  know  forever. 
Alas  !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths,  angels  that  are  to  be 
Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air ; 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings." 


John  Keats,  whom  Mrs.  Browning  has  distinguished  as, 

"  The  man  who  never  stepped 
In  gradual  process  like  another  man, 
But,  turning  grandly  on  his  central  self, 
Ensphered  himself  in  twenty  perfect  years, 
And  died,  not  young  (the  life  of  a  long  life 
Distilled  to  a  mere  drop,  falling  like  a  tear 
Upon  the  world's  cold  cheek  to  make  it  bum 
Forever)," 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  KEATS.  447 

was  in  his  life,  in  his  literary  progress,  and  in  his  "  sad 
decUne,"  intimately  associated  with  Leigh  Hunt,  —  his 
steadfast  friend. 

"  Nature,"  as  some  one  has  observed,  "often  makes  ap- 
parent mistakes  in  casting  nativities ;  "  and  it  cannot  but 
be  seen  that  though  in  the  main  exact,  she  does  now  and 
then  put  a  poor  passenger  of  time  in  the  wrong  coach. 
Had  John  Keats  been  ushered  into  the  Ehzabethan  age, 
when  the  singing- birds  each  made  his  own  song  in  his 
own  way  (rich,  varied,  and  fresh,  yet,  mayhap,  with  many 
quaint  little  trills  and  quavers  ;  sweet  and  winsome  withal, 
but  not  distinctly  included  in  any  score),  and  no  blood- 
thirsty reviewer  was  at  hand  to  aim  his  cruel  arrows 
among  the  song-tipsy  warblers,  crying,  *' Wretches,  how 
dare  j^ou  ?  Take  that,  and  that,  and  that !  Sing  by  note, 
or  die  ! "  —  had  Keats,  with  his  wild,  rich,  tropical  growth 
of  song,  the  fine  poetic  madness  burning  in  his  brain, 
and  the  wanton,  turbulent  melody  thrilling  his  whole 
being,  been  put  in  these  pleasant  places  of  song,  it  is 
impossible  to  say  what  he  might  have  done.  Unhappily 
for  himself  and  mankind,  he  came  into  this  workaday 
world  in  1795,  in  the  house  of  a  London  livery-stable 
keeper,  who  was  no  less  than  his  own  grandfather.  He 
may  be  supposed  to  have  eaten  his  beef  and  pudding,  to 
have  thumbed  his  school-books  and  played  his  cricket,  like 
any  ordinary  English  lad ;  and  at  fifteen  he  was,  like  a 
mere  matter-o'-fact  mortal,  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon, 
and  it  is  not  even  recorded  of  him  that  over  the  gallipots 
of  the  apothecary  he  dreamed  of — 

"  Emptying  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains." 

Most  of  his  time  was,  however,  devoted  to  the  cultivation 
of  his  literary  talents.  During  his  apprenticeship  he  made 
and  carefully  wrote  out  a  translation  of  VirgiFs  -^neid, 


448  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

and  instructed  himself  in  Greek  and  Italian.  Leigh  Hunt, 
being  shown  some  of  his  verses,  was  struck  with  their 
exuberant  promise  and  with  the  fine,  fervid  countenance 
of  the  writer,  and  became  his  first  critic  and  one  of  his 
earhest  and  latest  friends. 

In  1818  Keats  published  his  first,  longest,  and  most 
defective  poem,  ''Endymion."  The  poem  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Gilford,  —  a  critic  organically  coarse  and  rough, 
and  as  incapable,  both  mentally  and  physically,  of  analyz- 
ing the  sky-colored,  flower-scented  fancies  of  Keats  as 
an  oyster  would  be  to  write  an  essay  on  the  song  of  an 
oriole.  A  young  and  sensitive  poet,  flattered  by  partial 
friends,  and  ardently  panting  for  distinction,  the  seeds 
of  a  fatal  malady  already  sown  in  his  fragile  constitution 
were  fearfully  ripened  by  the  savage  onslaught  of  this 
brutal  critic  on  the  first-born  of  his  brain.  The  agony 
of  his  sufferings  is  said  to  have  resembled  insanity, 
and  suicide  was  only  prevented  by  assiduous  watching. 
The  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  ensued ;  and  the  fatal  dis- 
ease which  cut  short  his  embittered  existence  began  its 
deadly  work. 

Keats  did  not  abandon  poetry.  As  well  try  to  smother 
the  song  of  a  robin  among  the  apple-boughs  of  Ma}-  as 
to  silence  by  a  critique  the  singing  of  a  true  poet,  who 
gravitates  to  song  by  a  law  as  inevitable  as  that  which 
sends  a  smoke-wreath  curling  up  into  the  ether  or  a  sil- 
very runlet  down  a  hill- slope.  In  1820  he  brought  out  his 
second  volume,  "  Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes, 
and  other  Poems."  These  verses  met  with  a  just  appreci- 
ation which  amply  atoned  for  previous  injustice.  Jeffre}'- 
(we  kiss  reverently  the  hem  of  his  garment  for  the  kind- 
liness that  soothed  the  wounded  pride  of  poor  Keats)  in 
the  "  Edinburgh  Review"  eloquently  reviewed  the  volume. 

This  favorable  judgment,  which  was  confirmed  by  the 


LEIGH  HUNT   AND  KEATS.  449 

readers  of  poetry,  came  too  late  to  save  the  poet.  Far 
gone  in  consumption,  he  sought,  as  a  last  resource,  be- 
neath the  kindlier  skies  of  Italj-  to  replenish  the  wasted 
lamp  of  his  young  life.  From  Naples  he  made  his  last  mor- 
tal journey,  to  Rome,  and  there  he  died.  "  He  suffered  so 
much  in  Hngering,"  says  Leigh  Hunt,  who  tended  him 
lovingly  to  the  last,  ''that  he  used  to  watch  the  coun- 
tenance of  his  physician  for  the  favorable  and  fatal  sen- 
tence, and  express  his  regret  when  he  found  it  delayed." 
A  little  before  he  died  he  said  that  he  "  felt  the  daisies 
growing  over  him."  His  last  words  were,  "  I  am  dying. 
I  shall  die  easy  ;  don't  be  frightened.  Be  firm,  and  thank 
God  that  it  has  come!"  In  February,  1821,  they  laid 
him  in  the  Protestant  burying-ground  ;  and  there,  under 
the  same  sweet  coverlet  ('broidered  the  livelong  year  with 
violets  and  daisies)  where  amid  his  ashes  lies  the  Phoenix- 
heart  of  the  "  Eternal  Child,"  he  sleeps  well. 

Since  Spenser  we  have  had  no  poet  so  abstractly  poeti- 
cal as  Keats.  Morals,  politics,  metaphj^sics,  and  all  kin- 
dred dulness  he  leaves  to  common  mortals.  His  very 
philosophy  is  aesthetic :  *'  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for- 
ever." "Beauty  is  truth;  truth  beautj^"  It  has  been 
happily  observed  of  his  poetry  that  it  is  like  a  tangled 
forest,  beautiful,  indeed,  with  many  a  majestic  oak  and 
sunny  glade,  but  still  with  the  unpruned,  untamed  sav- 
agery everywhere,  —  the  rankness  of  a  tropic  vegetation, 
coming  of  too  rich  a  soil  and  too  much  light  and  heat. 

Keats  has  shown  much  of  that  power  over  words  which 
characterizes  our  greatest  poets.  He  was  a  student  and  an 
Intense  admirer  of  the  Elizabethan  poetry,  and  we  can  look 
with  indulgence  upon  his  obsolete  syllabification,  know- 
ing that  the  excess  of  his  love  and  reverence  led  him  into 
the  aflTectation  of  mimicry.  Whatever  his  faults  may  be 
(and  their  name  is  legion),  they  are  amply  redeemed  bj 


450  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

his  beauties.  His  most  wanton  sins  against  art  have  a  rel- 
ish of  goodness  in  them.  His  sickliest  nonsense  scarcely 
nauseates  you ;  like  the  pills  he  moulded  in  the  surgeon's 
mortar,  it  is  sugar-coated,  and  for  sake  of  the  sweetness 
5'ou  swallow  it  contentedly,  and,  mayhap,  like  those  mythi- 
cal children  of  "Sherman  lozenge"  notoriety,  "cry  for 
more." 

Keats  seems  to  have  been  altogether  enamoured  of  "  the 
fair  humanities  of  old  religions."  The  classic  myths  of 
antiquity  are  lovingly  embodied  in  his  verse.  "  Endym- 
ion"  is  an  old,  old  fable,  and  the  story  of  "Hyperion," 
as  some  one  has  remarked,  "is  older  than  antiquity 
itself." 

"  Keats's  Hyperion,"  says  De  Quincej',  "presents  the 
majesty,  the  austere  beauty,  and  the  simplicity  of  Gre- 
cian temples,  adorned  with  Grecian  sculpture."  This  is 
high  praise,  for  the  Opium-eater  is  not  an  admirer  of 
Keats,  being  exceedingly  harrowed  up  in  his  Anglo-Saxon 
soul  by  the  young  poet's  sins  against  the  syntax,  prosody, 
and  idiom  of  the  mother-tongue.  For  easy,  finished,  statu- 
esque beauty  and  classic  expression,  the  picture  of  Saturn 
and  Thea  in  "H3^perion"  is  perhaps  unequalled  in  modern 
poetry.  A  similarity  of  thought  between  Coleridge's 
"Christabel"  and  Keats's  "  Lamia"  has  been  observed; 
but  whether  he  took  the  idea  from  that  poem,  from  the 
story  in  Burton's  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  or  from  the 
old  classic  fable,  is  not  known. 

"  Isabella,"  a  story  of  love  and  grief,  from  Boccaccio, 
and  somewhat  revolting  in  detail,  in  Keats's  hands  reminds 
one  of  a  flower-strewn  corpse,  —  the  ghastliness  and  decay 
put  out  of  sight  by  odor  and  color.  The  odes  to  autumn 
and  to  a  nightingale  are  the  finest  of  Keats's  lyrics.  This 
latter  poem,  though  not  without  his  characteristic  manner, 
as  a  creation  is  simply  exquisite  :  — 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  KEATS.  451 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-ward  had  sunk : 
*T  is  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness. 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Proven9al  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth  I 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  south. 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee,  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan : 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs. 

Where  youth  grows  pale  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 
Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 


452       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms,  and  winding  mossy 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
Thei  coming  musk-rose  full  of  dewy  wine,  • 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 


Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  I 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  bom  for  Death,  immortal  bird  1 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 

The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  ; 

Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Rjith,  when  sick  for  home 


LEIGH   HUNT   AND  KEATS.  453 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn. 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self  1 
Adieu  1  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hillside  ;  and  now  't  is  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 
Fled  is  that  music,  —  Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

'» The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  "  is  so  beautiful  that  one  can 
scarcely  bear  to  talk  about  it  in  mere  common  words. 
The  poem  is  all  aglow  with  light,  perfume,  color,  and  a 
delicious  warmth  that  might  have  made  the  old  "Beads- 
man's "  benumbed  fingers  tingle  to  their  tips,  if  he  could 
but  have  read  the  verses,  instead  of  stupidly  mumbling 
his  rosary  with  frosty  breath  in  that  icy  chapel.  The  poem 
is  no  less  rich  with  the  charm  of  picture  than  of  music,  — 
"  golden-tongued,  and  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain." 

Out  of  Spenser,  there  is  nothing  daintier  than  this  piece 
of  description  ;  in  parts  it  even  surpasses  the  elder  poet : 

"  A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass. 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep  damask  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 


454  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest. 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  :  Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint." 

Apart  from  all  its  sweetness  and  beaut}',  there  is  in  the 
poem  the  rarest  vividness  of  painting.  The  description 
of  Madeline,  "  by  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd," 
is  like  a  draught  of  mandragora.  You  may  hear  the  floor 
creak  as  Porphyro  steals  out  to  set  his  charmed  table ; 
may  see  in  the  dim  twilight  of  the  chamber  that  gorgeous 
"  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet."  The  candied 
fruits,  the  jellies  "  soother  than  the  creamy  curd,"  the 
"  lucent  sjTups  tinct  with  cinnamon,  the  manna,  dates, 
and  spiced  dainties,  every  one,"  heaped  in  their  golden 
dishes  and  baskets  bright,  are  as  appetizing  as  a  confec- 
tioner's bow-window.  In  fancy  3'ou  may  smell  the  clean 
lavender-scented  linen  that  lines  the  "soft  and  chilly 
nest "  of  Madeline  ;  may  mark  the  very  coverlet  rise  and 
fall  with  her  gentle  breath.  And  when  at  last  the  poet 
breaks  the  enchantment,  and  tells  3'ou  that  these  lovers 
fled  away  into  the  night  and  storm  ages  ago  ;  that  Angela 
the  old  is  dead ;  that  the  Beadsman  has  told  his  thousand 
Aves,  and  gone  to  Paradise,  —  it  is  like  waking  from  a 
vivid  dream  that  still  haunts  the  broad,  wakeful  sunshine. 

All  of  worth  in  the  present  has  its  archetype  in  the 
past.  Thus  it  is  in  poetr3^  Wordsworth,  grave,  rever- 
ent, and  oracular,  is  moulded  after  the  ancient  Scalds, 
whoso  province  it  was  to  instruct  and  inform,  as  well  as 
to  entertain,  by  their  song.  Keats,  on  the  other  hand,  — 
like  the  merry  minstrels,  who  in  their  song  had  no  higher 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  KEATS.  455 

purpose  than  to  soothe  and  delight,  —  came  not  into  the 
world  to  teach^  but  to  charm.  In  a  brief,  sweet  spring- 
tide the  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung ;  all  his 
j-earning  passion-songs,  —  his  "lays  of  love  and  long- 
ing,"—  sweet  with  the  breath  of  violets  and  the  warble 
of  pairing  birds,  warm  with  the  ardent  kisses  of  the  sun, 
wild  with  the  turbulence  of  brimming  rills,  and  fair  with 
dewy  greenery  and  virgin  bloom.  To  him  there  came  no 
affluent  summer-time,  no  mellow  autumn  with  its  ripened 
fruitage  ;  for  in  his  joung  May- time  he  — 

"  Wept  away  this  life  of  care 
Which  we  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear." 

"  In  these  bad  days,"  says  the  author  of  "  Obiter 
Dicta,"  "it  is  thought  more  educationally  useful  to  know 
the  principles  of  the  common  pump  than  Keats's  ^  Ode  on 
a  Grecian  Urn.'  "  In  view  of  this  state  of  things,  it  surely 
behooves  us,  in  the  cause  of  that  admirable  poem,  to  take 
sides  with  the  "  Urn  "  against  the  "  Pump."  We  cannot 
afford  to  pander  to  a  too  material  age  by  letting  any  pure 
poetry  pass  into  nothingness.  Let  us  therefore  come 
promptly  to  the  rescue,  and  boldly  —  if  somewhat  rashly 
—  assert  with  Keats  in  that  matchless  ode  that  — 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,  that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know." 


456  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

SHELLEY. 

EVERY  incident  in  the  life  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 
wears  a  romantic  interest.  Born  at  Sussex,  Aug.  4, 
1792,  the  son  and  heir  of  a  wealthy  English  baronet,  Des- 
tiny gave  him  from  the  cradle  that  "world's  gear"  which 
she  has  too  often  withheld  from  the  tuneful  souls ;  yet  sad 
and  strange  was  his  brief,  troubled  existence.  Sorrow  and 
he  seem  to  have  so  early  met  as  to  have  been  playfellows  ; 
for  he  tells  us  that  when  a  mere  lad  at  school  he  walked 
forth  upon  the  gUttering  grass,  in  the  fresh  May-dawn, 
weeping,  he  knew  not  why.  At  Oxford  he  studied  hard 
but  irregularly,  made  chemical  experiments  for  diver- 
sion, and  ever  through  all,  thought  and  speculated,  till 
thought  became  misery,  and  speculation  mere  midsummer 
madness. 

At  seventeen,  glowing  with  youthful  ardor,  and  loving 
with  a  martyr's  passion  what  he  mistook  for  truth,  Shelley 
foolishly  challenged  the  authorities  of  Oxford  to  deny  in 
public  controversy  his  unanswerable  arguments  for  athe- 
ism. The  most  sage  authorities  not  only  properly  refused 
to  measure  swords  with  so  bold  an  enthusiast,  but  in  the 
same  spirit  of  dogmatical  intolerance  that  a  few  centuries 
earlier  might  have  consigned  him  to  the  stake,  hastened 
to  expel  him  with  opprobrium,  as  an  atheist,  from  the 
university. 


SHELLEY.  457 

The  friends  of  the  rash,  misguided  boy  turned  from  him 
in  disgust;  and  he  seems  upon  the  whole  to  have  met 
from  the  world  that  very  treatment  which  of  all  others  was 
most  calculated  to  nourish  the  very  evil  it  professed  to 
cure. 

Infldel  by  intellect,  but  Christian  by  the  tendencies  of 
his  heart,  God  knows  how  different  Shelley's  after-life 
might  have  been  had  the  lines  fallen  to  him  in  more 
liberal  places,  where  his  doubts  and  difficulties  had  been 
met  with  the  kindness  and  tolerance  born  of  broader  theo- 
logical perception  and  that  divine  charity  too  often  ignored 
by  blind  and  over-zealous  religionists.  Fragile  in  health 
and  frame,  organically  sceptical,  metaphysical  to  a  degree 
next  to  insanity,  and  continually  poring  over  unwholesome 
French  philosophy,  his  brain  had  suspended  all  healthy  ac- 
tion ;  and  for  the  time  being  he  should  have  been  treated 
for  incipient  lunacy  rather  than  reviled  for  infidelity.  Who 
that  reads  "  Queen  Mab  "  can  doubt  it? 

Shortly  after  his  expulsion  from  college  Shelley  married 
a  beautiful  girl  for  whom  he  seems  at  the  time  to  have  had 
a  kind  of  school-boy  attachment  as  unstable  as  it  was  ill- 
judged.  Harriet  Westbrooke  was  the  daughter  of  a  retired 
coffee-house  keeper ;  and  proud  Sir  Timothy  Shelley  never 
forgave  his  infidel  son  this  insult  to  the  ancestral  dignity. 
Such  flagrant  disloj'alty  to  his  patrician  creed,  overlapping 
his  retrograde  from  the  lineal  faith,  was  to  him  that  "  last 
feather"  which  is  supposed  to  "  break  the  camel's  back." 
This  marriage  seems  to  have  added  but  little  to  the  hap- 
piness of  the  poet.  Feuds  arose  between  the  boy-husband 
and  his  child-wife  ;  and  after  the  birth  of  two  children,  in- 
compatibilit}^  of  mind  parted  the  lovers  forever.  Young, 
beautiful,  and  unprotected,  stung,  it  is  said,  by  the  calumny 
of  the  world,  and  no  doubt  a  prey  to  temporary  delirium, 
the   young   wife   threw   herself   into   a   pond,  and   met, 


458       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

like  poor  Ophelia,  ''  a  muddy  death."  After  this  dread- 
ful event  Shelley  is  said  to  have  been  for  some  time  de- 
ranged. It  is  generally  supposed  that  he  could  not  have 
had  to  reproach  himself  for  contributing  by  his  harshness 
or  neglect  to  this  fearful  tragedy. 

A  chancery  decree  depriving  the  father  of  the  guardian- 
ship of  his  children  on  the  ground  of  his  immorality  and 
atheism  was  the  superfluous  drop  in  a  cup  alreadj'  brim- 
ming with  misery.  Shelley's  opinions  upon  marriage  were 
notoriously  erroneous ;  and  although  his  practice  was  far 
better  than  his  theory,  —  for  not  only  was  he  lawfully  mar- 
ried to  both  his  wives,  but  in  the  case  of  his  first  marriage 
the  ceremony  was  twice  performed,  —  still  his  most  partial 
eulogists  cannot  altogether  commend  his  disregard  of  a 
social  tie  which,  however  irksome,  it  would  have  been 
more  to  his  credit  to  have  respected.  In  a  second  and 
better-assorted  marriage,  with  the  talented  daughter  of 
Godwin  and  Marj^  WoUstonecraft,  the  poet  seems  at  last 
to  have  realized  the  love-dream  of  his  youth.  A  short, 
sweet  dream  it  was,  ending  too  soon  in  that  sleep  that 
neither  dreams  nor  loves. 

In  1818  Shelley  and  his  Mary  left  England  for  Italy, 
hoping  that  a  milder  climate  might  improve  his  health, 
for  he  had  long  been  a  martyr  to  intense  physical  suffer- 
ing. It  was  in  July,  1822,  that  the  cruel  waves  of  the  bay 
of  Spezia  flung  like  senseless  driftwood  upon  the  sands 
all  that  mortality  might  claim  of  Shelley. 

The  poet  was  drowned  on  his  homeward  passage  from 
Leghorn,  whither  he  had  gone  to  welcome  Leigh  Hunt  to 
Italy.  The  bod}',  having  lain  in  the  water  eight  days,  was 
so  much  decomposed  as  to  render  removal  difficult ;  and 
accordingly  it  was  reduced  to  ashes  by  fire.  Lord  Byron, 
Leigh  Hunt,  Trelawney,  and  Captain  Shenley,  on  the 
seashore  watched  mournfully  beside  the  classic  pyre,  while 


SHELLEY.  459 

it  consumed  all  that  could  perish  of  this  noble  being.  It 
is  affirmed  that  the  heart  of  Shelley  —  by  some  marvellous 
fortuity  —  remained  undestroyed  amid  his  ashes.  That 
gentle  heart  which  love  and  suffering  had  already  made 
pure  enough  for  immortality  the  devouring  element  for- 
bore to  harm ! 

They  buried  his  ashes  at  Rome  in  that  cemetery  where 
Keats  is  laid,  and  which  Shelley  himself  has  thus  de- 
scribed :  ' '  An  open  space  among  the  ruins  of  ancient 
Rome,  covered  in  winter  with  violets  and  daisies,  —  it 
misht  make  one  in  love  with  death  to  think  that  one 
should  be  buried  in  so  sweet  a  place."  And  there  he  is 
made  one  with  Nature,  and  has  won  from  her  sweet  grace 
the  boon  to  become  a  — 

"  Portion  of  the  loveliness  which  once  he  made  more  lovely." 

A  poet  possessing  a  more  genuine  poetic  impulse  and 
inspiration  than  Shelley  has  not  sung  in  England  since 
the  time  of  Shakespeare.  If  to  his  vital  heat,  his  fusing, 
shaping  power  of  imagination,  had  been  superadded  a  pro- 
founder  insight,  a  calmer  temperament,  and  a  broader, 
truer  philosophy,  Shelley's  song  might  have  been  such  as 
mortal  never  sang  before ;  for  he  had  indeed  — 

"...  Bathed  in  the  Thespian  springs, 

And  had  in  him  those  brave  translunary  things 

That  the  first  poets  had." 

And  moreover,  he  was  by  divine  election  a  seer,  —  the 
poet  of  the  hereafter,  "  the  herald  of  the  golden  3^ear," 
the  prophet  of  universal  religious  freedom  and  universal 
human  brotherhood !  V  In  him  culminated  the  great  ten- 
dencies of  our  time, — its  democracy,  its  socialism,  its 
scepticism,  and  its  pantheism.  J)  Impelled  by  mental  gravi- 
tation to  the  most  daring  heights  of  speculation,  like  the 
bird  of  Jove,  he  "  soared  too  high,  too  boldly  gazed  ; "  and 


460       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


I 


the  light  that  might  have  warmed  and  fructified,  blinded 
and  seared. 

However  deplorable  was  Shelley's  scepticism,  his  hfe  is 
affirmed  to  have  been  one  of  singular  purity,  elevation,  and 
mart^T-like  devotion  to  principle ;  and  surely  honest  un- 
belief is  less  condemnable  than  dead,  unfruitful  faith.  The 
pitying  angels  only  know  which  sight  was  saddest  before 
high  Heaven,  —  Shelley  in  his  desolate  unbelief,  rudderless 
and  unpiloted,  and  drifting  mournfully  away  from  the 
"  infinite  haven  of  our  souls ; "  or  Coleridge,  securely 
lapped  in  Lethean  dreams,  and  mouthing  prayers  with 
drugged  lips,  devoutly  subscribing  to  the  "  Thirty-Nine 
Articles,"  while  roundly-  denying  God  and  truth  by  a  sel- 
fish and  unsanctified  life !  Shelley  died  at  twenty-nine. 
Ten  years  was  the  brief  time  allotted  him  to  sing  on  earth  ; 
and  though  his  vernal  time  was  rife  with  immortal  bloom, 
he  was  not  permitted  to  bring  his  full  ripe  sheaf  into  the 
eternal  garner  of  song. 

His  "  Queen  Mab,"  written  at  eighteen,  is  crude  and 
defective,  and  unworthy  to  be  classed  with  the  produc- 
tions of  his  riper  years ;  yet  it  has  been  considered  as 
the  richest  promise  ever  given  at  so  earl}'  an  age,  of  high 
poetic  power.  In  sentiment,  the  poem  outrages  every  in- 
stitution and  ordinance  of  God  or  man ;  and  so  insanely 
atheistic  a  production  has  perhaps  never  been  born  among 
poets.  Though  bringing  a  heavy  weight  of  obloquy  and 
censure  upon  Shelley,  ''Queen  Mab"  has  done  but  little 
harm  to  Christianit3^  ^^^  takes  always  into  considera- 
tion the  frame  of  mind  in  which  it  was  written ;  for  no 
impartial  reader  could  consider  it  the  sane  production  of  a 
healthful  intellect,  yet,  as  some  one  observes,  "as  in  the 
ravings  of  a  maniac  there  is  much  that  is  clear  and  sweet, 
with  much  that  is  but  mere  gibberish  and  incoherence,  so 
it  is  with  this  singular  poem." 


SHELLEY.  461 

*'  Alastor,  or,  The  Spirit  of  Solitude,"  was  the  next  pro- 
duction of  the  poet.  In  "Alastor"  Shellej^  draws  from 
his  own  experience,  and  its  descriptive  passages  are  ex- 
celled in  none  of  his  previous  works.  From  the  date  of 
"Alastor"  to  his  death  was  not  quite  seven  years.  In 
this  brief  Maytime  of  song,  "The  Revolt  of  Islam,"  the 
dramas  of  "  Prometheus  Unbound,"  "  The  Cenci,"  and 
"Hellas,"  "The  Tale  of  Rosalind  and  Helen,"  "The 
Masque  of  Anarchy,"  "  The  Sensitive  Plant,"  "  Julian 
and  Maddalo,"  "  The  Witch  of  Atlas,"  "  Epipsychidion," 
"  Adonais,"  "  The  Triumph  of  Life,"  his  translations  and 
shorter  poems  were  produced.  "  So  much  poetry,"  ob- 
serves a  careful  critic,  "  so  rich  in  various  beauty,  was  never 
poured  forth  with  so  rapid  a  flow  from  any  other  mind." 

Shelley,  with  all  his  abundance  and  facility,  was  a  fas- 
tidious writer,  and  accustomed  to  elaborate  to  the  utmost 
whatever  he  wrote.  It  has  been  justly  said  that  "  all  that 
can  be  properly  called  unripeness  in  his  composition  had 
ceased  with  the  '  Revolt  of  Islam.'  That  haziness  of 
thought  and  uncertainty  of  expression  which  may  be 
found  in  almost  all  his  subsequent  works  is  not  to  be 
confounded  with  rawness ;  it  is  but  the  dreamy  ecstas}', 
too  high  for  speech,  in  which  his  subtle,  sensitive,  and 
poetically  voluptuous  nature  delighted  to  dissolve  and 
lose  itself." 

Shelley's  most  predominant  characteristic  is  ideality. 
As  has  been  happily  observed, — 

"  Thought,  with  him,  is  in  fact  the  reality,  while  outward  things 
are  but  its  shadow  ;  hence  the  remote,  abstract  character  of  his 
poetry,  and  its  lack  of  reality  and  tangibility. 

"  He  was  at  once  pure  and  impassioned,  sensuous  and  spirit- 
ual ;  from  form,  color,  and  sound  he  could  draw  a  keener  and 
more  intense  enjoyment  than  the  gross,  animal  sensations  of 
more  earthy  natures." 


462  ENGLISH   POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Add  to  all  this  that  in  his  "heart  of  hearts"  he  hun- 
gered after  absolute  ideal  perfection  with  an  intenseness 
that  only  a  poet,  freighted  with  ' '  golden  immortalities  of 
being,"  may  know.  No  poet  more  sincerely  reverenced 
his  art.  *'  Poetry,"  he  sa3's  in  one  of  his  essays,  "  is  the 
record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments  of  the  happiest 
and  best  minds ; "  and  again,  "  Poetry  redeems  from 
decay  the  visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man." 

The  abstract,  mystic  idealism  of  Shelley's  poetry  will 
always  render  it  less  widely  popular  than  it  deserves  to 
be.  To  the  realist  he  is  sometimes  fearfully  obscure. 
His  imagery  is  often  accumulated,  and  he  has  an  incor- 
rigible tendency  to  become  purely  metaphj'sical  when  he 
should  be  purely  poetical.  His  imagination  is  rich  and 
fertile,  and  his  diction  singularly  classical  and  imposing 
in  sound  and  structure.  "The  Revolt  of  Islam"  is  a 
poem  of  great  beauty  and  of  great  faults.  The  descrip- 
tion of  the  river-voyage  at  the  end  of  the  poem  is  among 
the  most  finished  of  Shelley's  productions. 

"  Prometheus  Unbound  "  —  a  sequel  to  the  "  Prometheus 
Bound  "  of  the  Greek  —  is  a  remarkable  poem.  Here 
the  poet  and  his  subject  are  in  perfect  harmony.  A 
remarkable  feature  in  the  poem  is  that  constant  person- 
ification of  inanimate  objects  which  is  a  striking  charac- 
teristic of  Shelley's  style.  This  fine  description  of  the 
flight  of  the  Hours,  makes  a  picture  vivid  as  Titian  him- 
self could  have  painted. 

"Behold! 
The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  purple  night 
I  see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds, 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds  :  in  each  there  stands 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars  : 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 


SHELLEY.  463 

With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed. 

As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 

And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.     Their  bright  locks 

Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair  :  they  all 

Sweep  onward. 

These  are  the  immortal  hours. 
Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.     One  waits  for  thee.'* 

*'  The  Cenci,"  a  tragedy,  was  published  in  1819.  In  a 
dedication  to  Leigh  Hunt  the  author  remarks,  — 

*'  Those  writings  which  I  have  hitherto  published  have  been 
little  else  than  visions  which  impersonate  my  own  apprehen- 
sions of  the  beautiful  and  the  just.  I  can  also  perceive  in  them 
the  literary  defects  incidental  to  youth  and  impatience;  they 
are  dreams  of  what  ought  to  be  or  may  be.  The  drama  which 
I  now  present  to  you  is  a  sad  reality." 

As  an  effort  of  intellectual  strength  "  Tlie  Cenci"  is 
incomparably  the  best  of  Shelley's  productions  ;  as  a  trag- 
edy it  is  one  of  the  best  of  modern  times.  In  select- 
ing for  bis  plot  the  revolting  story  of  the  Cenci,  the 
poet  has  been  accused  of  a  ghoul-like  appetite  for  the 
horrible  and  shocking.  Against  this  unfounded  assertion 
De  Quincey  thus  happilj'  protests  :  — 

"  The  true  motive  of  the  selection  of  such  a  story  was,  not 
its  darkness,  but  the  light  which  fights  with  the  darkness. 
Shelley  found  the  whole  attraction  of  this  dreadful  tale  in  the 
angelic  nature  of  Beatrice,  as  revealed  in  the  portrait  of  her  by 
Guido.  The  fine  relief;  the  light  upon  a  background  of  dark- 
ness, giving  the  artistic  effect;  the  touching  beauty  of  Beatrice; 
her  remorse  in  the  midst  of  real  innocence;  her  weakness,  and 
her  inexpressible  affliction ;  and  even  the  murder,  which  is  but 
the  embodiment  of  her  noble  aspirations  after  deliverance, 
throwing  into  fuller  revelation  the  glory  of  the  suffering  face,  — 
were  alike  the  dream  of  the  painter  and  the  poet,  and  both  have 
made  them  immortal." 


46^       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

This  outbreak  of  Beatrice,  in  view  of  her  execution,  is 
not  unlike  the  soHloquy  in  '*  Hamlet."  Shakespeare, 
however  (divinely  beautiful  as  some  of  his  fancies  are) , 
keeps  always  a  firm  foot  on  Mother  Earth.  He  never 
"hitches  his  wagon  to  a  star."  Shellej',  on  the  other 
hand,  is  quite  at  home  among  the  nebulae,  and  his  habit- 
ual tethering-post  is  somewhere  in  the  Milky  Way. 


Beatrice  {wildly). 

Oh, 
My  God !  can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly  1     So  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy  ground ! 
To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place ; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine ;  hear  no  more 
Blithe  voice  of  living  thing  ;  muse  not  again 
Upon  familiar  thoughts,  sad,  yet  thus  lost ! 
How  fearful !  to  be  nothing  !     Or  to  be  — 
What  ?     O,  where  am  1 1     Let  me  not  go  mad ! 
Sweet  Heaven,  forgive  weak  thoughts !     If  there  should  be 
No  God,  no  Heaven,  no  Earth  in  the  void  world  ! 
The  wide,  gray,  lampless,  deep,  unpeopled  world  ! 
If  all  things  then  should  be — my  father's  spirit, 
His  eye,  his  voice,  his  touch  surrounding  me  ; 
The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  my  dead  life  ! 
If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  himself. 
Even  the  form  which  tortured  me  on  earth. 
Masked  in  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles,  he  should  come, 
And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arms,  and  fix 
His  eyes  on  mine,  and  drag  me  down,  down,  down ! 
For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 
On  Earth,  and  ever  present  ?  even  though  dead, 
Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe. 
And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  same  ruin, 
Scorn,  pain,  despair  ?     Who  ever  yet  returned 
To  teach  the  laws  of  death's  untrodden  realm  ? 
Unjust  perhaps  as  those  which  drive  us  now, 
O,  whither,  whither  ? 


SHELLEY.  465 

LUCRETIA. 

Trust  in  God's  sweet  love, 
The  tender  promises  of  Christ :  ere  night 
Think  we  shall  be  in  Paradise. 

Beatrice. 

'T is  past! 
Whatever  comes,  my  heart  shall  sink  no  more. 
And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  your  words  strike  chill : 
How  tedious,  false,  and  cold  seem  aU  things !    I 
Have  met  with  much  injustice  in  this  world ; 
No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  or  man. 
Or  any  power  moulding  my  wretched  lot, 
'  Twixt  good  or  evil,  as  regarded  me, 
I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  I  know. 
From  light,  and  life,  and  love,  in  youth's  sweet  prime. 
You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God; 
I  hope  I  do  trust  in  him.     In  whom  else 
Can  any  trust  ?  And  yet  my  heart  is  cold. 

That  morbid  misery  in  which  Beatrice  reproduces 
prospectively  the  ghastly  phantom  of  her  mortal  fear  — 
the  loathed  shape  of  the  monster  who  called  her  "  child  "  — 
is  intensely  characteristic  of  Shelley.  The  putting  into  the 
mouth  of  Beatrice  —  a  Catholic  of  the  sixteenth  century 
—  his  own  dreary  speculative  atheism  is  an  oversight 
which  somewhat  mars  the  consistency  of  characterization 
in  this  tragedy.  The  natural  and  universal  interest  which 
the  stor}^  of  the  Cenci  has  produced  for  two  centuries,  and 
among  all  ranks  of  people  in  Rome,  suggested  to  Shellej" 
its  fitness  for  a  dramatic  purpose. 

To  increase  the  ideal,  and  diminish  the  actual  horror 
of  the  events,  so  that  the  pleasure  which  arises  from 
the  poetry,  existing  in  tempestuous  crimes  and  sufferings, 
may  mitigate  the  pain  of  the  contemplation  of  that  moral 
deformit}'  from  which  they  spring,  has  been  the  avowed 
object  of  the  poet.     The  highest  moral  purpose  of  the 


466       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

drama  —  the  teaching  of  the  human  heart  the  knowledge 
of  itself,  by  reproducing  the  various  interests,  passions, 
and  opinions  of  mankind  in  its  characters  —  is,  I  think, 
eminently  attained  in  this  traged}' ;  and  the  failure  of 
Beatrice  to  accomplish  by  crime  a  happy  release  from 
suffering,  has  its  moral  lesson,  enforcing,  as  it  does,  the 
wisdom  of  that  old  maxim,  ''It  is  better  to  suffer  wrong 
than  to  do  wrong." 

Shelley's  ''  Adonais"  is  to  me  the  most  purely  classical, 
tender,  and  divinely  beautiful  of  poems.  It  has  been  ob- 
served that  the  three  elegiac  poems  most  remarkable  in 
our  language  are  Milton's  "  Lycidas,"  Shelley's  "  Ado- 
nais,"  and   Tennj^son's   "  In   Memoriam." 

"  Adonais  "  —  an  elegy  in  memory  of  Keats  —  has  the 
same  classic  elegance  that  has  immortalized  ''  Lycidas." 
The  poem  opens  with  a  wail,  mournful  as  the  moaning 
sea,  and  tender  as  the  soughing  of  the  April  wind 
among  wet,  resinous  pines.  Then  the  poet's  imagina- 
tion, groping  —  as  is  its  wont  —  among  the  tombs,  is 
consoled  with  the  drearily  beautiful  thought  that  his  dead 
Adonais  still  lives  as  a  portion  of  the  universe ;  out  of 
this  comfortless  speculation,  this  dismal  absorption  into 
Nature,  which  is  scarcely  an  improvement  upon  annihila- 
tion, the  poet  is  carried,  in  spite  of  himself,  bj^  an  in- 
stinctive God-given  belief  in  individual  life  bej^ond  the 
grave ;  and  in  conclusion  he  rises  into  this  grand  and 
true  accord:  — 


**  The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.    Chatterton 
Rose  pale ;  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him  ;  Sidney  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell,  and  as  he  lived  and  loved. 
Sublimely  mild,  a  spirit  without  spot, 


SHELLEY.  467 

Arose ;  and  Lucan.  by  his  death  approved : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 

"And  many  more,  whose  names  on  earth  are  dark 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
*  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,'  they  cry  ; 
'  It  wEis  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent,  alone  amid  a  Heaven  of  song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our  throng !  * " 

"  Epipsj'chidion,"  written  in  the  last  j^ear  of  the  poet's 
life,  for  its  wealth  and  fusion  of  imagination,  of  expression 
and  of  music,  has  been  pronounced  "  the  greatest  miracle 
ever  wrought  in  verse."  It  is  too  purely  fanciful  and  filmy 
in  texture  to  attain  a  wide  popularit3^  To  float  with  the 
poet  through  this  "  nebulous  ether  of  moonlit  fancies  "  is 
like  supping  on  hashish. 

"  It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies. 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise, 


The  blue  -^gean  girds  this  chosen  home, 
With  ever-changing  sound,  and  light  and  foam. 
Kissing  the  sifted  sands  and  caverns  hoar ; 
And  all  the  winds  wandering  along  the  shore 
Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide. 

...    the  waterfalls, 
lUuraining  with  sound  that  never  fails. 
Accompany  the  noon-day  nightingales ; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs, 
The  light  clear  element  which  the  isle  wears 
Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers. 
Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen  showers 
And  falls  upon  the  eyelids  like  faint  sleep. 
And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils  peep, 


468       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

And  dart  their  arrowy  odor  through  the  brain, 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain. 
And  every  motion,  odor,  beam,  and  tone 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison : 
Which  is  a  soul  within  the  soul  —  they  seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream." 

The  odes  to  the  cloud  and  the  sk3^1ark  are  the  most  bril- 
liant and  characteristic  of  Shelley's  shorter  poems,  and 
with  perhaps  one  exception  (''  Adonais  ")  are  more  purely 
poetical  than  any  other  of  his  productions. 

Shelley  has  produced  nothing  richer  in  true  poetic 
warmth  of  color  than  this  little  poem  entitled  "Lines 
to  an  Indian  Air  "  :  — 

"  I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low. 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright ; 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ?  — 

To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet. 

"  The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark  and  silent  stream. 
The  Champak  odours  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart. 
As  I  must  do  on  thine, 

O,  beloved  as  thou  art ! " 

Shelley  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  ancient  house 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidne}',  —  *' the  spirit  without  spot,"  to 
whom  in  character  he  bears  some  resemblance.  He  lived 
like  a  hermit,  took  neither  meat  nor  wine,  rose  early,  and 
passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  reading  and  study- 
ing, or  walking.    He  read  particularly  Plato,  Homer,  the 


SHELLEY.  469 

Greek  tragedians,  and  the  Bible.  The  books  of  Isaiah 
and  Job  he  especially  admired. 

He  was  a  blessing  to  the  poor.  He  visited  the  sick  in 
their  beds,  — for  he  had  studied  medicine  that  he  might  be 
able  to  practise  on  occasion.  He  inquired  personally  into 
their  wants,  and  kept  a  regular  list  of  industrious  poor, 
whom  he  assisted  with  small  sums  to  make  up  their 
accounts ;  and  out  of  his  income  of  a  thousand  pounds 
a  year  he  bestowed  a  pension  of  one  hundred  upon  a 
needy  literary  man. 

In  person  Shelley  was  the  beau-ideal  of  a  poet.  He 
is  described  as  looking  "  like  an  elegant  and  slender 
flower,  whose  head  drooped  from  being  overcharged  with 
rain."  In  mind  he  was  singularly  free  from  all  sickly 
sentimentalism. 

"  Many  persons,"  says  De  Quincey,  *' remarked  something  se- 
raphic in  the  expression  of  his  features ;  and  something  seraphic 
there  was  in  his  nature.  He  would  from  his  earliest  man- 
hood have  sacrificed  all  that  he  possessed  to  any  comprehensive 
purpose  of  good  to  the  race  of  man.  He  looked  upon  the  evils 
of  existing  institutions,  and  the  vices  of  old  societies,  through 
the  distorted  media  of  that  cruelty  and  injustice  which  had 
been  a  portion  of  his  own  bitter  experience,  and  which  had 
roused  in  him  that  bitter  indignation  against  Christianity  that 
colored  his  whole  crusade  against  revealed  religion." 

In  summing  up  this  estimate  of  Shelley's  poetrj^,  what 
has  alreadj'  been  quoted  in  another  chapter  may  be  here 
again  applied,  —  ''it  lacks  flesh  and  blood  ;  "  and  for  that 
reason  it  is  less  widely  popular  than  it  deserves  to  be. 
Of  the  poet's  obscurity  (which  has  been  often  censured) 
it  should  be  distinctly  observed  that  it  is  not  at  all  an 
unintelligibility  purposely  planned  to  give  relish  to  his 
thought,  —  as  in  other  verse,  — but  the  inherent  haziness 
of  a  being  never  quite  at  home  on  terra  firma. 


470       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Shelley  was  not  only  intensely  psychological,  but  like 
Spenser  and  Sidnej^,  organically  ethereal.  At  his  steadiest 
poise,  he  has  a  tendency  to  soar;  like  the  sweet-pea 
ever  — 

"On tiptoe  for  a  flight," 

he  easily  escapes  into  regions  where  lower-thoughted  mor- 
tals cannot  follow  him  and  his  sky-born  fancies.  Had 
he  but  lived  to  gain  the  wisdom  and  experience  that  comes 
with  riper  years,  instead  of  leaving  us  before  his  brown 
locks  had  known  their  earliest  frost,  he  might  have  attained 
to  even  higher  structural  perfection.  His  matured  judgment 
would  have  better  regulated  the  selection  of  his  themes, 
and  would  undoubtedly  have  corrected  the  rashness  of  his 
sentiment;  but  to  the  last,  his  poetry  would  have  been 
above  the  grasp  of  minds  that  chiefly  commerce  with  the 
actual  and  the  real,  and  eschew  fancies  and  ideals,  for  — 

"  Native  to  the  skj, 
Downward  he  could  not  hie." 


HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOR.  471 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOR. 

OUR  poetical  literature  at  this  time  was  brightened  by 
many  lively  and  agreeable  versifiers  who  display 
among  themselves  refinement,  taste,  and  classic  elegance 
rather  than  force,  or  originality  of  invention,  and  by  two 
poets  of  really  creative  energy.  Hood  has  produced 
poems  that  appeal  to  the  universal  heart,  and  have 
wrought  themselves  into  the  memory  of  all  readers  of 
verse ;  and  we  may  safely  place  him  among  distinguished 
poets.  And  independent  of  his  high  reputation  in  prose, 
Macaulay's  masterly  ballads  will  long  hold  their  distinct 
place  in  English  literature.  No  poet  has  more  forcibly 
illustrated  the  lamentable  truth  that 

"  Laughter  to  sadness  is  so  near  allied, 
But  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide," 

than  Thomas  Hood,  who  has  given  to  the  world  more  puns 
and  levities  than  any  cotemporary  author,  and  has  written 
some  of  the  most  powerfully  pathetic  song  that  our  litera- 
ture affords. 

This  "  poet  of  melancholy  and  of  mirth"  was  the  son 
of  a  bookseller,  and  born  in  London,  1798.  Hood  was 
educated  for  the  counting-house ;  but  his  health  being 
found  unequal  to  the  confinement  and  close  application 
of  the  merchant's  desk,  he  went  to  Dundee  to  reside  with 
the  relatives  of  his  father,  and  there  destiny  most  fortu- 


472  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

nately  led  his  steps  to  the  first  round  of  that  ladder  which 
he  afterward  so  successfully  mounted :  he  became  a  con- 
tributor to  the  local  newspapers  and  to  the  "  Dundee 
Magazine."  His  modest  judgment  of  his  own  abilities 
deterred  him  at  this  time  from  literature  as  a  profession, 
and  on  his  return  to  London  he  applied  himself  assidu- 
ously to  the  art  of  engraving,  in  which  he  acquired  a  skill 
that  enabled  him  in  after-years  to  illustrate  his  humors 
and  fancies  by  those  quaint  devices  which  have  given  rare 
effect  to  his  drolleries. 

About  the  year  1821  Hood  adopted  literature  as  a  pro- 
fession, and  was  installed  as  regular  assistant  to  the  ''  Lon- 
don Magazine."  In  this  congenial  work  he  became  the 
associate  of  the  best  literary  men  of  the  time,  and  in  that 
happ3',  genial  intercourse  gradually  developed  his  own  in- 
tellectual powers.  Poor  Tom  Hood  !  his  life  was  one  of 
incessant  exertion,  embittered  b}^  ill  health,  straitened 
circumstances,  and  all  the  disquiets  and  uncertainties 
pertaining  to  literary  bread-getting  ;  and  when  one  thinks 
of  all  he  suffered  while  playing  the  merry  harlequin  for 
the  gaping  world,  his  puns  seem  sorrowful  as  sighs,  and 
his  jests  sadder  than  tears  !  When  almost  prostrated  with 
disease,  the  British  Government,  whose  moderation  in 
rewarding  the  national  services  of  authors  is  "known 
onto  all  men,"  came  tardil}^  to  the  rescue  with  a  nig- 
gardly pension.  It  came  too  late  for  the  toil-worn  poet ; 
and  in  May,  1845,  his  kindl}^  heart,  with  all  its  sadness 
and  its  mirth,  was  forever  stilled. 

Though  Hood  has  chiefly  appeared  before  the  world  in 
the  character  of  a  humorist,  he  possessed  a  rich  imagina- 
tive fancy,  poetic  insight,  wonderful  power  over  the  higher 
passions  and  emotions,  and  a  pathos  that  has  seldom  been 
surpassed.  His  productions  are  in  various  stj'les  and 
forms.     His  first  work,  "  Whims  and  Oddities,"  attained 


HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOR.  473 

to  great  popularity.  ''National  Tales,"  and  ''Tilney 
Hall,"  a  novel,  followed.  Hood's  prose  was  less  attrac- 
tive than  his  verse  ;  and  his  novel  was  a  decided  failure. 
He  next  gave  to  the  world  his  '' Midsummer  Fairies,"  — 
a  rich,  imaginative  poem,  superior  to  any  of  his  former 
productions. 

As  editor  of  the  "Comic  Annual,"  and  also  of  some 
of  the  ''  Literary  Annuals,"  Hood  increased  his  reputation 
for  sportive  humor  and  poetical  fanc}'.  In  the  "  Comic 
Annual,"  which  he  undertook  and  continued,  almost  unas- 
sisted, for  several  years,  Hood  treated  all  the  leading 
events  of  the  da}'  in  a  fine  spirit  of  caricature,  and  in 
a  style  which  (like  the  delineation  of  Hogarth)  will  be 
identified  by  posterity  as  peculiarlj'  his  own. 

The  most  original  feature  in  Hood's  humorous  produc- 
tions is  the  abundant  use  of  puns,  generally  considered 
too  contemptible  for  literature,  but  in  his  plastic  hands 
made  graceful  and  poetical,  often  becoming  the  basis  of 
genuine  humor  or  purest  pathos,  and  sometimes  uniting 
the  serious  and  mournful  in  strangely  effective  combi- 
nation, —  as  in  this  description  of  the  birth  of  Miss 
Kilmansegg. 

**  What  different  dooms  our  birthdays  bring ! 
For  instance,  one  little  manikin  thing 

Survives  to  wear  many  a  wrinkle ; 
"While  death  forbids  another  to  wake, 
And  a  son  that  it  took  nine  moons  to  make 

Expires  without  even  a  twinkle ! 

"  Into  this  world  we  come  like  ships. 
Launched  from  the  docks,  and  stocks,  and  slips. 

For  fortune  fair  or  fatal ; 
And  one  little  craft  is  cast  away 
In  its  very  first  trip  in  Babbicome  Bay, 

While  another  rides  safe  at  Port  Natal. 


474       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  What  different  lots  our  stars  accord ! 
This  babe  to  be  hailed  and  woo'd  as  a  lord, 

And  that  to  be  shunn'd  like  a  leper ! 
One,  to  the  world's  wine,  honey,  and  corn, 
Another,  like  Colchester  native,  born 

To  its  vinegar,  only,  and  pepper. 

**  One  is  littered  under  a  roof 
Neither  wind  nor  water  proof,  — 

That 's  the  prose  of  Love  in  a  Cottage,  — 
A  puny,  naked,  shivering  wretch, 
The  whole  of  whose  birthright  would  not  fetch. 
Though  Robins  himself  drew  up  the  sketch, 

The  bid  of  a  mess  of  pottage. 

"  Bom  of  Fortunatus's  kin 
Another  comes  tenderly  ushered  in 

To  a  prospect  all  bright  and  burnished : 
No  tenant  he  for  life's  back  slums,  — 
He  comes  to  the  world  as  a  gentleman  comes 

To  a  lodging  ready  furnish'd. 

"And  the  other  sex  —  the  tender  —  the  fair — 
What  wide  reverses  of  fate  are  there ! 
Whilst  Margaret,  charmed  by  the  Bulbul  rare, 

In  a  garden  of  Gul  reposes. 
Poor  Peggy  hawks  nosegays  from  street  to  street, 
Till  —  think  of  that !  who  find  life  so  sweet !  — 

She  hates  the  smell  of  roses ! 

**  Not  so  with  the  infant  Kilmansegg ! 
She  was  not  born  to  steal  or  beg, 
Or  gather  cresses  in  ditches ; 
To  plait  the  straw,  or  bind  the  shoe, 
Or  sit  all  day  to  hem  and  sew. 
As  women  must  —  and  not  a  few  — 
To  fill  their  insides  with  stitches ! 

"  She  was  not  doomed  for  bread  to  eat. 
To  be  put  to  her  hands  as  well  as  her  feet, 
To  carry  home  linen  from  mangles. 


HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOK.      475 

Or  heavy-hearted  and  weary-limbed, 
To  dance  on  a  rope  in  a  jacket  trimm'd 
With  as  many  blows  as  spangles. 

*  She  was  one  of  those  who  by  Fortune's  boon 
Are  born,  as  they  say,  with  a  silver  spoon 

In  her  mouth,  not  a  wooden  ladle ; 
To  speak  according  to  poet's  wont, 
Plutus  as  sponsor  stood  at  her  font, 

And  Midas  rocked  the  cradle. 

'  At  her  first  debut  she  found  her  head 

On  a  pillow  of  down,  in  a  downy  bed, 

With  a  damask  canopy  over. 


"  Her  very  first  draught  of  vital  air 
It  was  not  the  common  chameleon  fare 
Of  plebeian  lungs  and  noses. 
No    her  earliest  sniff 
Of  this  world  Was  a  whiff 
Of  the  genuine  Ottar  of  Roses ! " 

Immediate  success  was  important  to  Hood,  and  his 
originality  being  most  apparent  in  the  humorous  and  gro- 
tesque, he  sought  popularity  in  the  gaj'eties  of  mirth  and 
fancy.  He  has,  however,  given  us  verses  in  a  grave, 
lofty,  and  sustained  style,  purely  poetical  and  imagina- 
tive, and  rich  and  musical  enough  in  diction  to  recall 
some  of  the  finest  flights  of  the  Elizabethan  poets,  as  in 
these  stanzas  from  his  admirable  ode  entitled  "Autumn." 

"  I  saw  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless  like  silence,  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn ;  — 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night. 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  com. 


476       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"The  sqoirrel  gloats  on  his  accomplished  hoard, 
The  ants  have  brimmed  their  garners  with  ripe  grain, 

And  honey-bees  have  stored 
The  sweets  of  summer  in  their  luscious  cells  ; 
The  swallows  all  have  winged  across  the  main ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells, 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Among  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 

Alone,  alone. 

Upon  a  mossy  stone, 
She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone. 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  rosary. 
Whilst  all  the  withered  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
Li  the  hushed  mind's  mysterious  far  away. 
Doubtful  what  ghastly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray. 

"  0  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair : 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care ;  — 
There  is  enough  of  withered  everywhere , 
To  make  her  bower,  —  and  enough  of  gloom ; 
There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite, 
If  only  for  the  rose  that  died,  —  whose  doom 
Is  Beauty's." 

Hood  has  written  but  few  sonnets,  yet  enough,  I  think, 
to  display  his  mastery  over  that  form  of  poetic  composi- 
tion, —  as  in  this :  — 

"  Love,  dearest  Lady,  such  as  I  would  speak. 
Lives  not  within  the  humor  of  the  eye,  — 
Not  being  but  an  outward  phantasy, 
That  skims  the  surface  of  a  tinted  cheek  — 
Else  it  would  wane  with  beauty,  and  grow  weak. 
As  if  the  rose  made  summer,  —  and  so  lie 
Amongst  the  perishable  things  that  die. 
Unlike  the  love  which  I  would  give  and  seek 
Whose  health  is  of  no  hue  —  to  feel  decay 


HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOR.      477 

With  cheeks'  decay,  that  have  a  rosy  prime, 
Love  is  its  own  great  loveliness  alway, 
And  takes  new  lustre  from  the  touch  of  time; 
Its  bough  owns  no  December,  and  no  May, 
But  bears  its  blossom  into  winter's  clime." 

The  poem  on  the  story  of  "  Eugene  Aram  "  first  mani- 
fested the  full  extent  of  that  poetical  vigor  which  ad- 
vanced as  the  health  of  the  poet  declined.  From  a  sick 
bed,  from  which  he  never  rose,  Hood  conducted  with 
marvellous  energy  the  magazine  which  he  had  started  in 
his  own  name ;  and  there  he  composed  those  two  poems 
which  have  taken  their  place  among  the 

"jewels  .  .  . 
That  on  the  stretched  forefinger  of  all  time 
Sparkle  forever,"  — 

the  **  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  and  the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs."  In 
these  wonderful  poems  Hood  has  taken  homely,  prosaic 
human  interests  from  the  low  level  of  fact,  and  lifting 
them  to  the  skyey  region  of  imagination,  has  hung  them 
—  masterly  ''pictures  rich  and  rare"  —  where  they  ap- 
peal eternally  to  the  human  heart.  "  The  Bridge  of 
Sighs"  combines  eloquence  and  poetry  with  a  metrical 
energy  scarcely  excelled  in  our  language ;  and  hardened 
indeed  must  be  the  heart  that  can  read  it  and  still  look 
with  '' Levite  e3'es"on  the  slipping  sinners  "of  Eve's 
family."  Though  the  use  of  the  sewing-machine  ma}^ 
have  impaired  the  literal  pathos  of  that  "  stitch,  stitch, 
stitch  "in  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt,"  we  must  still  wear 
our  tucks  and  furbelows  and  exquisitelj'  made  shirts  with 
a  sad  consciousness  that  "all  this  white  satin  "has  not 
been  put  within  ordinary  reach  without  its  proximate 
wear  of  "flesh  and  blood." 

It  is  perhaps  to  be  regretted  that  an  author  possessing 


478       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


such  undoubted  command  over  the  passions  and  emotions 
as  has  been  displa^-ed  by  Hood  in  ''  Eugene  Aram,"  "  The 
Song  of  the  Shirt,"  and  "The  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  should 
have  given  us  so  httle  in  this  vein ;  yet  even  in  his  puns 
and  jests  there  is  always  a  savor  of  good.  They  are 
entirely  free  from  that  grossness  and  vulgarity  which 
unhappily  abounds  in  the  compositions  of  many  humor- 
ists of  our  day.  Hood's  satire  is  without  a  spark  of  per- 
sonal malice ;  there  is  always  in  him  an  under-current 
of  beautiful  Christian  humanity ;  and  as  has  been  ob- 
served, "  those  who  come  to  laugh  at  folly  remain  to 
s^'mpathize  with  want  and  suffering."  Among  his  lofty 
and  graver  productions  are  many  fine  and  finished  poems 
that  maj^  compare  with  the  very  best  in  our  literature ; 
as  the  "  Ode  to  Autumn,"  "  The  Haunted  House,"  "  The 
Death-Bed,"  and  "I  remember,  I  remember."  His 
"Fair  Inez"  is  one  of  our  finest  poems.  This  sonnet 
is  good  enough  to  have  been  the  work  of  Shakespeare 
himself:  — 

"  It  is  not  death  that  sometimes  in  a  sigh 
This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speechless  flight ; 
That  sometime  these  bright  stars,  that  now  reply 
In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in  night  ; 
That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite, 
And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to  flow ; 
That  thought  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  sprite 
Be  lapp'd  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below ; 
It  is  not  death  to  know  this,  but  to  know 
That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  new  graves 
In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 
So  duly  and  so  oft ;  and  when  grass  waves 
Over  the  past-away,  there  may  be  then 
No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men." 

Let  these  stanzas  from  onr  own  Lowell's  beautiful  trib- 
ute to  Hood's  memory  assure  us  that  the  "  resurrection  in 


ons  11 


HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOR.  479 

the  minds  of  men  "  craved  by  this  noble,  kindly  heart  has 
not  been  denied  him. 

"  Let  laurelled  marbles  weigh  on  other  tombs, 
Let  anthems  peal  for  other  dead, 
Rustling  the  bannered  depths  of  minster-glooms 
With  their  exulting  spread. 

"  His  epitaph  shall  mock  the  short-lived  stone, 
No  lichen  shall  its  lines  efface, 
He  needs  these  few  and  simple  lines  alone 
To  mark  his  resting-place : 

"  Here  lies  a  Poet.    Stranger,  if  to  thee 
His  claim  to  memory  be  obscure. 
If  thou  would'st  learn  how  truly  great  was  he, 
Go,  ask  it  of  the  poor." 

In  1842  Thomas  B.  Macaulay,  a  brilliant  prose-writer, 
surprised  the  world  with  his  "  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome." 
Selecting  as  themes  for  his  verse  four  of  the  heroic  and 
romantic  incidents  related  by  Livy  of  the  early  history 
of  Rome,  he  identifies  himself  with  the  plebeians  and  trib- 
unes, and  makes  them  chant  these  ancient  stories.  The 
style  is  homely,  energetic,  and  abrupt.  His  pictures  of 
local  scenery  and  manners  are  strikinglj-  graphic.  The 
interest  of  the  narrative  is  rapid  and  progressive,  and 
the  true  Roman  spirit  animates  the  whole.  A  popular 
critic  has  observed  of  these  *'Lays":  "The  man  who 
can  read  them  without  feeling  a  thrill  at  his  heart  is 
not  fit  to  serve  in  the  militia." 

Macaulay's  "Lays"  are  characterized  by  the  same 
abounding  strong  athletic  life  which  in  Scott's  poetry 
carries  by  storm  ever3'thing  before  it.  His  heroes  are 
not  done  in  marble ;  thej^  are  warm,  palpitating  flesh 
and  blood,  and  one  seems  verily  to  witness  their  deeds 
of  prowess  and  courage.     Our  poetical  literature  affords 


480  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

us  nothing  finer  in  the  w&y  of  graphic  and  spirited  nar- 
rative than  the  "Keeping  of  the  Bridge."  It  cannot 
admit  of  mutilation,  and  though  perhaps  already  familiar, 
must  be  quoted  entire  as  an  example  of  his  style. 

**  Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly : 

*  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down ; 
For  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 
Naught  else  can  save  the  town/ 


**  Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 
The  Captain  of  the  gate  : 

*  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods  1 

**  *  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  you  may ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me. 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  straight  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now,  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  * 

"  Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius,  — 
A  Ramnian  proud  was  he  : 

*  Lo,  I  will  stand  on  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.' 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius,  — 
Of  Tatian  blood  was  he :  — 

*  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.* 

" '  Horatius,*  quoth  the  Consul, 
'  As  thou  say'st,  so  let  it  be.* 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 
Forth  went  the  dauntless  three. 


HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOR.  481 

For  Romans,  in  Rome's  quarrel, 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

"  The  three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes. 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
But  soon  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses. 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  three  1 

"  Meanwhile  the  ax  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied, 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
'  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  I  * 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all ; 
*  Back,  Lartius !  back,  Herminius  I 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall ! ' 

"  Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius ; 

Herminius  darted  back ; 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces. 

And  on  the  further  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone. 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 

**  But,  with  a  crash  like  thunder. 
Fell  every  loosened  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream ; 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 
Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 
3X 


482        ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

"  Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 
But  constant  still  in  mind ; 

Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 
And  the  broad  flood  behind. 

*  Down  with  him  ! '  cried  false  Sextus, 
With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 

'Now  yield  thee ! '  cried  Lars  Forsena, 

*  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace.' 

"  Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see ; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus, 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome : 

"  *  0  Tiber !    Father  Tiber ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray ! 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  ! ' 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side. 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

**  No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank ; 
But  friends  and  foes,  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear. 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

"  *  Out  on  him !  *  quoth  false  Sextus ; 

*  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 


HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOR.      483 

But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town !  * 
*  Heaven  help  him ! '  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

*  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before ! ' 

**  And  now  the  ground  he  touches, 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands  ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers, 

To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-Gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd/' 

Walter  Savage  Landor,  born  1775,  will  be  remembered 
as  a  prose-writer  rather  than  a  poet ;  yet  his  first  publica- 
tion was  a  small  volume  of  poems,  dated  as  far  back  as 
1795.  He  is  also  the  author  of  "Gebir"  and  several 
dramas.  The  boyhood  of  Landor  was  spent  at  Rugby 
School ;  from  thence  he  was  transferred  to  Trinity  College. 
Having  imbibed  Republican  sentiments,  he  declined  enter- 
ing the  army,  for  which  he  was  intended. 

His  father  then  offered  him  an  allowance  of  five  hundred 
pounds  per  annum,  on  condition  that  he  should  study  the 
law ;  if  he  refused,  his  income  was  to  be  restricted  to  one 
third  of  the  sum.  Landor  chose  the  pursuit  of  literature, 
with  the  smaller  sum.  He  subsequently,  however,  suc- 
ceeded to  the  family  estate,  and  about  the  year  1815,  left 
England  for  Italy,  where  for  the  remainder  of  his  days  he 
chiefly  resided.  He  died  in  1864.  As  a  ripe  scholar,  im- 
bued with  the  spirit  of  antiquity,  Landor  transcended  most 
of  his  cotemporaries.  Notwithstanding  his  high  intellect- 
ual endowments  and  proud  social  standing,  he  was  in  his 
old  age  subjected  to  the  indignit}^  of  a  trial  for  defamation, 
and  was  convicted  of  having  grossly  and  indecently  slan- 


484  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

dered  a  lady  in  one  of  his  publications,  and  he  afterward  left 
England  poor  and  dishonored.  His  friends  seem  to  have 
come  somewhat  tardily  to  his  rescue ;  but  he  was  finally 
established  comfortably  at  Florence,  with  an  annuity  of 
two  hundred  pounds,  which  Robert  Browning  is  said  to 
have  kindly  seen  ''  duly  employed  so  long  as  he  remained 
in  Florence." 

Though  deaf  and  ailing,  Landor  still  solaced  himself  by 
writing  and  publishing  verses ;  and  at  his  ninetieth  year, 
when  death  ended  his  labors,  he  was  still  engaged  in  work- 
ing at  new  "Conversations,"  in  which  it  is  said  "the 
old  fire  burned  not  dimly."  Landor's  poetry  is  far  infe- 
rior to  his  prose.  "  Gebir  "  —  his  principal  poem  —  has 
not  been  widel}^  appreciated.  Southey  warmly  admired 
the  work ;  De  Quincey  extolled  it,  and  said  of  it  that  it 
had  for  some  time  the  sublime  distinction  of  having  en- 
joyed only  two  readers  —  Southey  and  himself.  The 
poem  was  originally  written  in  Latin  (Gebirus).  Unpreju- 
diced critics  have  pronounced  its  chief  fault  to  be  its 
obscurity.  Landor  was  a  deep  and  fluent  thinker,  but  in 
his  verse  he  does  not  always  clothe  his  ideas  in  clear, 
forcible,  and  direct  terms,  and  is  often  unintelligible  to 
his  readers.  This  fine  passage,  which  has  been  amplified 
by  Wordsworth  in  his  "  Excursion,"  is  from  "  Gebir" : 

"  But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbibed 
In  the  sun's  palace-porch,  where  when  unyoked 
His  chariot-wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave : 
Shake  one,  and  it  awakens,  then  apply  • 

Its  polished  lips  to  your  attentive  ear. 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes 
And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there." 

Landor's  ** Imaginary  Conversations"  are  written  in 
pure,  nervous  English.    A  series  of  dialogues  published  at 


HOOD,  MACAULAY,  AND  LANDOR.  485 

intervals,  they  number  in  all  one  hundred  and  twenty-five ; 
and  it  has  been  aptly  said  of  them  that  they  "  range  over 
all  history,  all  time,  and  almost  all  subjects." 

In  character  Landor  was  moody,  egotistic,  and  full  of 
crotchets  and  prejudices  which  he  liberally  expressed, 
regardless  of  others,  and  often  in  language  offensive  to 
good  taste.  He  was  somewhat  visionary  in  his  philoso- 
phy; and  Mr.  John  Bull  has  esteemed  him  an  unsound 
politician.  In  an  appeal  to  Lord  Brougham  —  in  1850,  I 
think  —  respecting  the  claims  of  literary  men  upon  the 
nation,  he  suggests  that  "  a  portion  of  the  sum  expended 
in  building  stables  for  a  prince  not  tall  enough  to  mount  a 
donkey,  be  appropriated  to  the  reward  of  the  chief  living 
geniuses  who  have  adorned  and  exalted  their  age."  In 
his  aphorisms  Landor  is  often  apt  and  forcible,  as  in 
this :  *'  The  happy  man  is  he  who  distinguishes  the  boun- 
dary between  desire  and  delight." 


486       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ROGERS,  LAMB,  POLLOK,  AND  MINOR  POETS  OF  THE 
TIME. 

EMINENT  in  that  school  whose  verse  is  relished  only 
by  the  intellectual  classes,  and  has  no  deep  pathos 
or  kindling  energy  to  touch  the  soul  or  fire  the  imagina- 
tion, is  Samuel  Rogers,  born  at  Stoke  Newington,  near 
London,  1763.  Rogers  can  in  no  sense  claim  to  have 
"learned  in  suffering  what  he  taught  in  song.'*  His  life 
was  as  calm  and  felicitous  as  his  poetr}'. 

The  son  of  a  wealthy  banker,  he  received  a  careful  pri- 
vate education,  and  was  subsequently  made  a  partner  in 
the  paternal  establishment,  where  he  continued  to  his 
death.  Rogers's  life  emphatically  gives  the  lie  to  that 
dispiriting  asseveration  of  the  Man  of  Uz,  "  Man  is  born 
unto  trouble  as  the  sparks  fly  upward."  An  accomplished 
traveller,  a  lover  of  the  fair  and  good  and  great,  and 
enabled  by  kindly  fortune  to  cultivate  his  favorite  tastes 
and  to  follow  his  favorite  pursuits ;  to  enrich  his  home 
with  rare  pictures,  fine  busts,  choice  books,  and  whatso- 
ever delighteth  a  poet's  heart ;  to  choose  and  entertain  his 
friends  with  generous  hospitalit}',  and  to  soothe  and  re- 
lieve with  noble  bounty  suffering  worth  and  unfriended 
talent ;  at  ninety  years  still  retaining  his  passion  for  the 
beautiful,  and  dying  painlessl}^  by  slow  decay,  —  who  would 
not  rejoice  to  behold  so  gracious  a  mortal  lot? 

Rogers's  reign  in  London  literary  society  was  long  and 
brilliant.     An  invitation  to  his  dinners  was  much  coveted. 


ROGERS,  LAMB,  AND  POLLOK.  487 

and  his  ten  o'clock  breakfasts  were  so  distinguished  that 
it  was  considered  something  even  to  have  seen  such  men 
as  had  breakfasted  with  Rogers.  In  his  long  life  he  was 
a  cotemporary  of  many  men  of  genius.  As  a  young  man  he 
was  the  friend  of  Fox,  Sheridan,  and  Adam  Smith ;  later, 
an  intimate  of  Moore,  Byron,  Wordsworth,  and  Sir  Walter 
Scott ;  and  in  his  old  age  Tennyson,  Dickens,  and  Ruskin 
were  welcomed  at  his  table,  where  ''  the  feast  of  reason  and 
the  flow  of  soul "  even  exceeded  the  ample  grosser  sup- 
ply. There  Coleridge  in  his  wonderful  monologue  talked 
poetry  to  the  guests  ;  Wordsworth  discoursed  of  his  own 
particular  poetry ;  Walter  Scott  told  capital  stories ;  and 
Sj'dney  Smith's  sharp  wit  seasoned  the  feast. 

Rogers,  on  the  death  of  his  friend  Wordsworth,  was  asked 
to  succeed  him  as  poet  laureate.  He  is  said  to  have  written 
to  Prince  Albert,  in  declining  the  honor,  at  eighty- -seven  : 
"  Nothing  remains  of  me  but  my  shadow,  —  a  shadow 
soon  to  depart."  His  pungent  wit,  and  his  well-known 
propensity  to  exercise  it,  made  him  a  terror  to  his  foes ; 
and  in  early  life  he  is  said  sometimes  to  have  indulged 
it  even  at  the  expense  of  his  friends.  He  became  more 
gentle  in  character  as  age  drew  on ;  but  it  has  been 
aptly  said  of  him  that  ''  no  one  ever  said  severer  things 
or  did  kinder  deeds." 

Rogers's  elegance  and  polish  as  a  poet  half  atones  for 
his  lack  of  power  and  originality.  In  his  published  "  Table 
Talk "  he  says:  "I  was  engaged  on  the  'Pleasures  of 
Memory '  for  nine  years ;  on  '  Human  Life  '  for  nearly 
the  same  space  of  time,  and  '  Italy  '  was  not  completed  in 
less  than  sixteen  j^ears."  Here  surely  was  time  enough 
for  the  poet  to  have  "  appealed  from  Philip  drunk  to 
Philip  sober;"  but  unfortunately  this  ''Philip"  was 
never  "  drunk"  at  all!  His  allowance  of  the  divine  af- 
flatus was,  alas !  but  a  safe  teaspoonful  or  so.    His  verse 


488  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

is  chiefly  characterized  by  elegant  finish  and  pensive  ten- 
derness of  the  soberest  kind.  His  best  poems  are  the 
three  above-named.  In  ''  Italy  "  his  tale  of  Ginevra  is 
embraced;  this  poem  gives  to  the  reader  delightful 
glimpses  of  Italian  life  and  scener}"  and  traditional  lore. 
"Human  Life"  possesses  deeper  feeling  than  may  be 
found  in  "  Italy,"  or  even  in  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory." 
''  Italy  "  was  published  in  a  form  so  highly  ornate  as  to 
captivate  by  its  mere  externals.  Dr.  Holmes  has  aptly 
remarked  of  this  poem :  "  'T  is  a  pity  that  all  poets  are 
not  rich  bankers,  one's  children  look  so  much  better 
dressed  in  point-lace  than  in  plain  muslin." 

''The  Pleasures  of  Memory"  is  Rogers's  most  popu- 
lar poem.  It  has  been  happily  remarked  that  he  was 
"  more  fortunate  in  his  choice  of  a  subject  than  Campbell 
or  Akenside,  since  Hope  and  Imagination  we  ma^'  outlive  ; 
but  Memory  passes  away  only  with  the  heart  wherein  it 
dwells."  Rogers  was  a  laggard  votary  of  the  school  of 
Pope ;  and  this  fragment  is  not  without  its  spice  of  the 
bard  of  Twickenham. 

TO  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Child  of  the  sun !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lovest  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  Paradise  unfold, 
Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening  sky, 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy  I 
Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  there  wrought  a  tomb  and  slept. 
And  such  is  man  ;  soon  from  this  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

Rogers  was  thoroughly  in  love  with  his  muse,  and  as- 
siduously cultivated  his  poetical  talent  to  the  very  end  of 


ROGERS,  LAMB,  AND  POLLOK.  489 

life.  Heaven  rest  the  poet  to  whom  Nature  denied  the 
divine  consecration,  but  gave  him,  as  he  tells  us  in 
*atalj,"— 

"  A  passionate  love  for  music,  sculpture,  painting. 
For  poetry,  the  language  of  the  gods. 
For  all  things  here,  or  grand  or  beautiful, 
A  setting  sun,  a  lake  among  the  mountains, 
The  light  of  an  ingenuous  countenance. 
And,  what  transcends  them  all,  a  noble  action." 

Charles  Lamb,  whose  poetical  pieces  barely  indicate 
those  powers  which  were  displayed  in  his  fine  prose  essays, 
published  his  early  verses  along  with  those  of  his  two 
friends,  Coleridge  and  Loyd.  Lamb  was  of  humble 
parentage,  his  father  being  servant  and  friend  to  a 
bencher  of  the  Inner  Temple.  He  was  born  in  London, 
on  the  10th  of  Februar}^,  1775,  and  was,  from  his  seventh 
to  his  fifteenth  year,  an  inmate  of  Christ's  Hospital,  where 
he  was  educated  with  a  view  to  his  entering  the  Church. 
An  impediment  in  his  speech  proved  an  insuperable  ob- 
jection, and  decided  against  a  college  admission ;  and  in 
1792  he  obtained  an  appointment  in  the  accountant's  oflSce 
of  the  East  India  Company.  The  principal  traits  in  his 
character  and  the  leading  events  of  his  life  are  well 
known;  his  filial  tenderness,  his  genial  love  of  friends, 
and  his  almost  martyr-like  devotion  to  his  poor,  crazed 
Mary,  —  the  beloved  sister  who  had  watched  over  him  from 
infancy,  and  whose  solicitude  he  repaid  by  dedicating  his 
whole  existence  to  her,  nobly  resolving  to  form  no  tie 
which  could  interfere  with  her  supremac}^  in  his  affections, 
or  impair  his  abilit}'  to  sustain  and  comfort  her. 

In  1834  this  genial  heart,  with  all  its  whims  and  preju- 
dices, its  playful  humor,  and  its  faithful  love,  had  ceased 
to  beat.     In  the  churchyard  at  Edmonton  they  laid  him, 


490       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

the  brave,  affectionate,  and  pure-souled  poet,  wept  and 
regretted  by  many  friends. 

Lamb  was  a  true  Londoner,  and  as  much  enamoured 
of  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand  as  Dr.  Johnson  himself. 
Clambering  to  the  top  of  Skiddaw  with  Coleridge,  and 
deepl}'  struck  with  the  solitary  grandeur  and  beauty  of 
the  lakes,  he  said  to  his  friend,  "I  could  spend  a  year, 
two  or  three  years,  among  them  ;  but  I  must  have  a  pros- 
pect of  seeing  Fleet  Street  at  the  end  of  that  time,  or  I 
should  mope  and  XDine  away." 

Social  life,  its  habits,  courtesies,  and  observances,  was 
to  Lamb  as  vitally  necessary  as  the  air  he  breathed. 
From  it  he  drew  his  mental  inspiration ;  and  if  some- 
times, drunk  with  the  new  wine  of  poetry,  he  floated  sk}-- 
ward  in  dreams,  his  afflnit}^  was  still  properl}^  with  earth, 
and  soon  drew  him  back  to  his  familiar  and  well-beloved 
home. 

In  spirit,  if  not  in  form.  Lamb  was  a  poet,  and  may 
claim  his  place  among  poets.  Among  English  essaj^ists 
he  is  ranked  as  a  genuine  and  original  master.  For  his 
style  he  is  indebted  to  the  old  English  writers,  who  were 
his  constant  study  and  lifelong  admiration;  and  he  has 
liberally  grafted  upon  it  the  fine  sayings,  noble  thoughts, 
and  quaint  conceits  of  his  favorites.  His  writings  are 
marked  by  strong  individuality ;  thej^  display  original 
thought  and  fancy,  curious  reading,  nice  observation,  and 
fine  poetical  conceptions.  Though  carefullj^  elaborated, 
they  are  altogether  in  defiance  of  the  conventional  pomp 
and  style. 

In  the  drama  Lamb  failed.  His  tragedy,  *'  John 
Woodvil,"  was  handled  roughly  in  the  *'  Edinburgh  Re- 
view." His  two  plays  are  meagre  in  plot,  apparently 
affected  in  st3'le,  yet  containing  much  that  is  exquisite, 
both  in  sentiment  and  expression.    This  fragment  from 


ROGERS,  LAMB,  AND  POLLOK.        491 

one  of  Lamb's  essa^-s  ("Dream  Children")  is  a  specimen 
of  his  prose-poetrj^ ;  it  has  been  often  quoted,  but  is  not 
yet  staled  by  repetition. 

"  The  children  prayed  me  to  tell  them  some  stories  about  their 
pretty,  dead  mother.  Then  I  told  how,  for  seven  long  years,  in 
hope  sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persisting  ever,  I 

courted  the  fair  Alice  ^Y n  ;  and  as  much  as  children  could 

understand,  I  explained  to  them  what  coyness  and  difficulty 
and  denial  meant  in  maidens.  When,  suddenly  turning  to  Alice, 
the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes  with  such  a 
reality  of  re-presentment  that  I  became  in  doubt  which  of  them 
stood  before  me,  or  whose  that  bright  hair  was ;  and  while  I  stood 
gazing,  both  the  children  gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  view, 
receding,  and  still  receding,  till  nothing  at  last  but  two  mourn- 
ful features  were  seen  in  the  uttermost  distance,  which,  without 
speech,  strangely  impressed  upon  me  the  effects  of  speech: 
*  We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee  ;  nor  are  we  children  at  all. 
The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartram  father.  We  are  nothing, 
less  than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are  only  what  might  have 
been,  and  must  wait  upon  the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions 
of  ages  before  we  have  existence  and  a  name  ; '  and  immedi- 
ately awaking,  I  found  myself  quietly  seated  in  my  bachelor 
armchair,  where  I  had  fallen  asleep.'* 

Lamb's  quaint  humor  may  be  seen  in  his  verses  entitled 
"  A  Farewell  to  Tobacco."  The  poem  is  too  long  to 
quote.  "The  Old  Familiar  Faces"  is  full  of  touching 
pathos ;  but  his  best  poetry  (so  to  speak)  is  his  prose. 
His  essaj'S  signed  Elia  were  originally  printed  in  the 
"London  Magazine;"  and  upon  them  his  fame  chiefly 
rests. 

Robert  Pollok,  author  of  the  "  Course  of  Time,"  was  a 
clergyman  of  the  Scottish  kirk,  born  in  1799.  He  studied 
divinity  five  years  under  Dr.  Dick.  Intense  mental  appli- 
cation brought  on  pulmonary  sj^mptoms,  and  what  with 


492  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Calvinism  and  ill  health,  he  became  as  gloomily  pious  as 
possible  ;  and  after  embodying  in  this  long  religious  poem 
his  morbid  theological  tenets,  he  died  of  consumption  in 
1827.  The  same  year  witnessed  Pollok's  advent  as  a 
preacher  and  a  poet,  and  his  untimely  death. 

"The  subject  of  his  poem"  (which  is  written  in  blank 
verse),  as  has  been  observed,  "is  the  grandest  that  can 
be  conceived,  and  embraces  within  itself  almost  every 
possible  theme  of  the  philosopher,  the  moralist,  and  the 
poet."  In  style  the  work  is  a  composite  imitation  of 
Milton,  Blair,  and  Young.  The  object  of  the  poet  is  to 
describe  the  spiritual  life  and  destiny  of  man.  The  re- 
ligious speculations  of  the  author  are  varied  with  epi- 
sodical pictures  and  narratives,  illustrating  the  effects  of 
virtue  and  vice.  Many  splendid  passages  and  images  are 
scattered  through  the  work ;  but  the  poet  is  often  harsh, 
turgid,  vehement,  and  repulsive.  His  morbid  fancy  de- 
lights most  in  describing  the  woe  and  wailing  of  that 
future  world  of  despair  which  his  cheerful  theology  has 
graciously  appropriated  to  the  "non-elect."  In  design 
and  in  diction  the  work  indicates  remarkable  power, 
which  taste,  refinement,  and  a  better  creed  might  have 
more  happily  developed.  The  work  attained  to  great 
popularity,  and  Pollok  was  at  the  time  even  honored 
with  the  name  of  "  the  Scotch  Dante."  It  went  through 
eighteen  editions,  and  still  holds  its  own  among  very  de- 
vout but  not  over-fastidious  readers. 

Pollok  ended  his  mortal  course  at  the  early  age  of 
twentj'-eight.  His  piet}'  was  ardent  and  sincere ;  and 
we  may  hope  that  now  he  sees  no  longer  * '  as  through 
a  glass  darkly,"  and  has  learned  that  God  is  not  ven- 
geance, but  love.  His  description  of  a  miser  is  a  fair 
specimen  of  Pollok's  style,  which  is  often  prolix  beyond 
endurance :  — 


I 
I 


ROGERS,  LAMB,  AND  POLLOK.       493 

"  But  there  was  one  in  folly  further  gone ; 
With  eye  awry,  incurable,  and  wild, 
The  laughing-stock  of  devils  and  of  men, 
And  by  his  guardian  Angel  quite  given  up,  — 
The  Miser,  who  with  dust  inanimate 
Held  wedded  intercourse. 

...  Of  all  God  made  upright. 
And  in  their  nostrils  breathed  a  living  soul. 
Most  fallen,  most  prone,  most  earthy,  most  debased. 
Of  all  that  sold  Eternity  for  Time 
None  bargained  on  so  easy  terms  with  death. 
Illustrious  fool !    Nay,  most  inhuman  wretch ! 
He  sat  among  his  bags,  and,  with  a  look 
Which  hell  might  be  ashamed  of 

Drove  the  poor  away  unalmsed ;  and  midst  abundance  died  — 
Sorest  of  evils  —  died  of  utter  want ! " 

Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker  poet,  belongs  to  this  period. 
His  verses  appeared  in  1820,  and  though  not  of  a  striking 
character,  the}^  possess  warmth  of  feeling,  and  are  not  with- 
out grace  of  manner. 

Henry  Kirke  White,  who  died  in  1806,  at  the  early  age 
of  twenty-one,  has  left  us,  among  a  few  other  pieces,  that 
fine  and  forcible  hymn  in  which  occurs  this  beautiful  and 
impressive  stanza :  — 

"  Howl,  winds  of  night !  your  force  combine ; 
Without  his  high  behest, 
Ye  shall  not  in  the  mountain  pine 
Disturb  the  sparrow's  nest." 

The  promise  of  his  blossoming-time  was  fair  and  large, 
but  long  before  the  season  of  fruitage  he  was  gathered  by 
the  "Reaper." 

Bishop  Heber,  born  in  1783,  takes  his  rank  among  the 
minor  poets  of  this  time.  Though  deficient  in  passion  and 
imagination,  Heber  has  much  elegance  of  diction  ;  and  the 
sentiment  of  his  verse  is  often  strikingly  beautiful.     His 


494       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

piety  was  as  unaffected  as  it  was  deep,  and  '*  his  compara- 
tively short  life  was,  "says  his  biographer,  '^till  the  day 
of  his  death  like  one  unbroken  track  of  light." 

Heber  is  best  known  by  his  hymns.  Some  of  them 
are  the  best  in  our  language,  as  his  missionary  hymn, 
''From  Greenland's  Icy  Mountains"  ;  and  that  beginning 
thus,  "Brightest  and  best  of  the  Sons  of  the  Morning." 
The  "  Lines  written  to  a  March,"  show  his  mastery  over  a 
livelier  kind  of  verse. 

* 
"  I  see  tliem  on  their  winding  way, 

About  their  ranks  the  moonbeams  play." 

This  song  was  once  highly  popular,  but  like  many 
another  fine  old  song,  it  has  been  superseded  by  less 
meritorious  productions. 

James  Grahame,  born  in  Glasgow,  1765,  and  dying  in 
1811,  is  placed  among  the  minor  poets  of  this  period.  He 
was  a  curate  in  the  Church  of  England,  until  ill  health 
obliged  him  to  resign  his  position.  Of  the  several  works 
that  he  published,  "  The  Sabbath  "  is  the  best.  This 
pleasing  anecdote  is  related  in  connection  with  its  publi- 
cation :  "  Grahame  had  not  prefixed  his  name  to  the  work, 
nor  acquainted  his  family  with  the  secret  of  its  composi- 
tion, and  taking  a  copy  of  the  volume  home  with  him  one 
day,  he  left  it  on  the  table.  His  wife  began  reading  it 
while  the  sensitive  author  walked  up  and  down  the  room  ; 
and  at  length  she  broke  out  into  praise  of  the  poem,  add- 
ing, *  Ah,  James,  if  jou  could  but  produce  a  poem  like 
this  ! '  The  joyful  acknowledgment  of  its  authorship  was 
then  made." 

Grahame  is  not  a  forceful  poet.  Like  Cowper,  he  ex- 
cels in  the  power  of  close  and  happy  observation  ;  but  he 
has  no  humor  or  satire  to  enliven  his  verse,  which  is,  on 


ROGERS,  LAMB,  AND  POLLOK.        495 

the  whole,  rather  dull  and  prosaic,  though  faithful  in  de- 
scription. His  poem  is  recommended  to  the  Scotsman  by 
its  distinct  and  accurate  portraj^al  of  the  ordinary  features 
of  a  Scottish  landscape  ;  and  its  prevailing  tone  of  pious 
trust  in  God  commends  it  to  all. 

Charles  Wolfe,  a  Dublin  clergyman,  was  born  in  1791,  and 
died  in  1823.  He  gained  hterary  immortality  by  one  short, 
perfect  poem,  and  that  copied  with  some  closeness  from  a 
prose  account  of  the  incident.  His  ode  entitled  *'  The 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  "  was  anonymously  published  in 
an  Irish  newspaper,  in  1817,  and  was  ascribed  to  various 
authors.  Shelley  considered  it  not  unlike  a  first  draught 
of  Campbell.  In  1841  the  poem  was  claimed  by  a  Scot- 
tish student  and  teacher.  ''  Fame,  like  wealth,  has  its 
covetous  and  unprincipled  pursuers."  Wolfe's  right  is 
now,  however,  established  beyond  any  further  question  or 
controversy.  Wolfe's  incessant  attention  to  his  duties  in 
a  wild  and  scattered  parish  hurried  him  to  an  untimely 
grave. 

Though  far  less  popularly  known  than  the  ode,  that  little 
song  which  Wolfe  composed  to  a  certain  Irish  melody, 
when  it  is  said,  "  after  singing  the  air  over  and  over,  he 
bad  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,"  is  full  of  the  sweetest 
pathos,  as  may  be  seen  by  this  fragment :  — 

"  If  thou  wouldst  stay  e'en  as  thou  art. 

All  cold,  and  all  serene, 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been  ! 
While  e'en  thy  chill  bleak  corse  I  have. 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own ; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave  — 

And  I  am  now  alone ! 

"  I  do  not  think  where'er  thou  art. 
Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 


496       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart 

In  thinking  too  of  thee : 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore ! " 

Wolfe  is  the  author  of  that  once  popular  but  now  almost 
obsolete  song,  ^'Go,  Forget  Me."  His  versification  is 
melody  itself. 

In  1812  the  famous  "Rejected  Addresses"  —  the  joint 
production  of  the  witty  brothers,  James  and  Horace 
Smith  —  was  given  to  the  world.  The  directors  of  the 
Drury  Lane  Theatre  had  offered  a  premium  for  the  best 
poetical  address  to  be  spoken  at  the  opening  of  the  new 
edifice.  A  casual  hint  from  the  secretary  of  the  theatre 
suggested  to  them  the  composition  of  a  series  of  humorous 
addresses,  professedly  composed  by  the  principal  authors 
of  the  day.  They  were  jointly  engaged  for  six  weeks 
in  the  work,  which  was  ready  by  the  opening  of  the 
theatre. 

Its  success  was  almost  unexampled.  Eighteen  editions 
have  been  sold ;  and  the  copyright,  after  the  sixteenth 
edition,  sold  for  one  hundred  and  thirty  pounds.  The 
articles  written  by  James  Smith  are  some  of  them  inimi- 
table. The  parodies  on  Cobbett  and  Crabbe  are  most 
praised.  Of  Horace  Smith's  parodies,  that  of  Walter 
Scott  is  thought  to  be  most  felicitous.  A  very  amusing 
one  is  that  on  Wordsworth,  noticed  in  the  chapter  on  that 
poet. 

James  Smith  was  a  fascinating  companion,  a  professed 
joker  and  diner  out ;  of  extensive  information  and  refined 
manners,  joined  to  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  liveliness  and 
humor,  and  a  happy,  uniform  temper.  He  was  a  true  lover 
of  London,  and  used  to  quote  Dr.  Johnson's  dogma,  "  Sir, 


ROGERS,  LAMB,  AND  POLLOK.       497 

the  man  that  is  tired  of  London  is  tired  of  existence." 
Lad^'  Blessington  has  said  of  him,  ''If  James  Smith  were 
not  a  witty  man,  he  would  still  be  a  great  man." 

The  "Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni's  Exhibition" 
is  one  of  Horace  Smith's  best  productions.  It  is  too  long 
to  quote  entire  ;  but  here  are  some  of  its  best  stanzas : 

"  And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story !) 
In  Thebes's  streets,  three  thousand  years  ago, 
When  the  Memnonium  was  in  aU  its  glory, 

And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 
Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous. 
Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous ! 

"  Speak !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy ; 

Thou  hast  a  tongue,  come,  let  us  hear  its  tune ; 
Thou  'rt  standing  on  thy  legs  above  ground,  mummy ! 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 
Not  like  thin  ghosts,  or  disembodied  creatures. 
But  with  thy  bones  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 

"  Tell  us —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect  — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame  ? 
Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 
Is  Pompey's  pillar  really  a  misnomer  ? 
Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

"  Perhaps  thou  wert  a  mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade,  — 
Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played  ? 
Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest  —  if  so,  my  struggles 
Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

**  Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass ; 
Or  dropped  a  half-penny  in  Homer's  hat. 
Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass, 
82 


498       ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 
A  torch  at  the  great  temple's  dedication. 

"  Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever  1 
Oh !  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue,  that,  when  both  must  sever. 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom." 

Horace  Smith  was  a  stockbroker,  and  made  a  fortune  at 
his  business.  Shelley  said  of  him:  "Is  it  not  odd  that 
the  only  trul}^  generous  person  I  ever  knew,  who  had 
money  to  be  generous  with,  should  be  a  stockbroker?  And 
he  writes  poetry  too,  and  pastoral  dramas,  and  yet  knows 
how  to  make  money,  and  does  make  it,  and  is  still  gener- 
ous!" Says  Leigh  Hunt:  "  A  finer  nature  than  Horace 
Smith's,  except  in  the  single  instance  of  Shelley,  I  never 
met  with  in  man."    Shelley  has  thus  summed  up  his  merits 

in  verse :  — 

"  Wit  and  sense, 
Virtue  and  human  knowledge,  all  that  might 
Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delight. 
Are  all  combined  in  Horace  Smith." 

Nature  unhappily  broke  the  die  after  Horace  Smith,  and 
now  produces  stockbrokers  of  quite  another  mould. 

James  Montgomery,  a  religious  poet,  born  in  1771,  and 
dying  in  1854,  was  with  a  large  class  of  readers  one  of  the 
most  acceptable  poets  of  his  time.  His  father  was  a  Mo- 
ravian missionary,  and  the  poet  was  educated  at  a  Mora- 
vian school,  but  declined  the  honor  of  being  a  priest ;  and 
after  being  grocer's  apprentice,  and  shop-bo}",  he  carried 
his  early  poems  to  London,  but  faiUng  to  obtain  a  pub- 
lisher, took  a  situation  in  a  newspaper  office  as  clerk,  and 
subsequently,  with  the  aid  of  his  friends,  established  a 
weekly  journal  which  he  conducted  with  marked,  ability, 


ROGERS,  LAMB,  AND  POLLOK.       499 

though  its  course  did  not  alwa3's  run  smooth.  His  first 
volume  of  poetry,  entitled  "The  Wanderer  of  Switzerland, 
and  other  Poems,"  appeared  in  1806.  It  had  alreadj^  gone 
through  two  editions,  and  his  publishers  had  just  issued  a 
third  when  the  ''Edinburgh  Review"  attacked  the  poor 
volume  with  a  brutal  insolence  that  mortal  verse  could 
scarcely  hope  to  survive.  The  reviewer  predicted  that 
"in  less  than  three  years  nobody  would  know  the  name 
of  the  '  Wanderer  of  Switzerland '  or  of  any  other  of  the 
poems  in  the  collection  ;  "  but  let  the  author,  "  crushed  to 
earth  "  b}^  a  critique,  take  courage  and  "  rise  again  ;  "  for 
in  spite  of  this  friendlj'  oracle,  edition  after  edition  of  the 
condemned  volume  has  been  issued,  and  it  had,  years  ago, 
reached  to  nearly  twentj^  of  them  I 

Of  Montgomery's  longer  poems  ''The  Pelican  Island" 
is  thought  to  be  the  best.  It  is  characterized  by  his  own 
felicity  of  diction,  and  by  a  minute  and  delicate  descrip- 
tion of  natural  phenomena.  Though  he  is  most  popularly 
known  b}*  his  sacred  lyrics,  Montgomery  has  given  ample 
proof  that  his  powers  were  not  restricted  to  purely  spirit- 
ual themes.  Thoughtfulness  and  simple  grace,  combined 
with  a  musical  flow,  are  the  especial  characteristics  of  his 
hymns,  which  among  the  serious  have  attained  a  popular- 
ity almost  equal  to  the  verses  of  Moore  among  the  lovers 
of  lighter  song.  This  beautiful  lyric  is  a  fair  specimen  of 
Montgomery's  stj'le :  — 

"  Friend  after  friend  departs : 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end : 
Were  this  frail  world  our  fina,l  rest, 
Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

"  Beyond  the  flight  of  time, 
Beyond  the  reign  of  death, 


500  ENGLISH  POETRY  AND  POETS. 

There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath, 
Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 
Whose  sparks  tiy  upward  and  expire. 


"  Thus  star  by  star  declines 

Till  all  are  passed  away, 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  and  perfect  day ; 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night, 
But  lose  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light." 


LIST  OF  POEMS  QUOTED  OR  MENTIONED. 


Abou  Ben  Adhem  (Leigh  Hunt), 
445. 

Address  to  the  De'il  (Burns),  293-294. 

Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni's 
Exhibition  (Smith),  497-498. 

Adonais  (Shelley),  466-467. 

Alastor;  or.  The  Spirit  of  Solitude 
(Shelley),  461. 

Albion's  England  (Warner),  110. 

Alchemist,  The  (Jonson),  120. 

Alexander's  Feast  (Dryden),  175-176. 

All  for  Love  (Dryden),  174, 178. 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  (Shake- 
speare), 142. 

Ancient    Mariner    (Coleridge),   321, 
329-331. 

Angel  in  the   House   (Leigh  Hunt), 
446. 

Antonio  and  Mellida  (Marston),  126. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra  (Shakespeare), 
142. 

Arcades  (Milton),  188. 

Arcadia  (Sidney),  90-91. 

As  You  Like  It  (Shakespeare),  143. 

Auld  Robin  Gray  (Lady  Anne  Bar- 
nard), 278. 

Aurora  Leigh  (Mrs.  Browning),  431- 
432,  433,  434,  437-438. 

Autumn  (Hood),  475-476. 


Baby's  Debut  (Wordsworth),  304. 
Bannockburn  (Burns),  296. 
Bannockburn  (Scott),  365. 
Bard,  The  (Gray),  252. 


Battle  of  Blenheim  (Addison),  229. 
Battle  of  Blenheim  (Southey),  342. 
Baucis  and  Philemon  (Swift),  224- 

226. 
Beggar's  Opera  (Gay),  219. 
Beowulf  (Anglo-Saxon),  36. 
Black-Eyed  Susan  (Gay),  219. 
Bondman,  The  (Massinger),  123. 
Bonnie  Leslie  (Burns),  296. 
Bride  of  Abydos  (Byron),  349. 
Bridge  of  Sighs  (Hood),  477,  478. 
Bruce,  The  (Barbour),  271. 
Brut ;  or,  Chronicle  of  Britain  (Laya- 

mon),  40. 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  (Wolfe), 

495. 


Cadenus  and  Vanessa  (Swift),  223. 

Canterbury  Tales  (Chaucer),  51. 

Casa  Guidi  Windows  (Mrs.  Brown- 
ing), 430. 

Castle  of  Indolence  (Thomson),  239, 
240,  241. 

Cato  (Addison),  228. 

Cenci,  The  (Shelley),  463-465. 

Challenge  for  Beauty  (Hej'^wood), 
125. 

Chaucer  Modernized  (Home),  52. 

Chevy  Chase,  26. 

Childe  Harold  (Byron),  374,  378-380. 

Christabel  (Coleridge),  321,  325,  331- 
333. 

Chronicle  of  King  Lear  (Norman- 
Saxon),  37. 


502 


POEMS  QUOTED  OR  MENTIONED. 


I 


City  Madam  (Massinger),  123. 
Cleomenes  (Dryden),  173. 
Comus  (Milton),  188,  190-194. 
Confessio  Amantis ;  or,  The  Lover's 

Confession  (Gower),  58, 60. 
Conquest  of  Granada  (Dryden),  173, 

174. 
Cooper's  Hill  (Denham),  164-165. 
Corsair,  The  (Byron),  349. 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night  (Burns),  279, 

291. 
Court  of  Love  (Chaucer),  59. 
Coy  Mistress  (Marvell),  168. 
Crazed  Maiden  (Crabbe),  396-398. 
Creation,  The  (Caeduion),  34. 
Curse  of   Kehama    (Southey),   339, 

340-342. 


Damon  and  Pythias   (Edwards), 

114. 
Dance,  The  (Dunbar),  275. 
Davideis  (Cowley),  170. 
Death's    Final    Conquest  (Shirley), 

130-131. 
Decay  of  Life  (Quarles),  104-105. 
Description  of    the    Birth    of    Miss 

Kilmansegg  (Hood),  473-475. 
Description  of  a  Miser  (PoUok),  492- 

493. 
Deserted  Village  (Goldsmith),  246- 

247. 
Don  Juan  (Byron),  377-378. 
Don  Sebastian  (Dryden),  178. 
Dream,  The  (Byron),  381. 
Drinking  (Cowley),  171. 
Duchess  of  Malfy  (Webster),  128- 

130. 
Dunciad  (Pope),  211. 


Edward  II.  (Marlowe),  117. 
Edwin  and  Emma  (Prior),  26. 
Elegy    in    a    Country    Churchj'-ard 

(Gray),  252,  254. 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Fair  Infant 

Dying  in  Winter  (Milton),  187. 
Elegy  on  Keats  (Shelley),  444. 


English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers 

(Byron),  374. 
English  Traveller  (Hey wood),  125. 
Epigram  on  a  Tailor  (Harrington), 

98-99. 
Epipsychidion  (Shelley),  467-468. 
Epistle  from  Eloisa  to  Abelard  (Pope), 

210. 
Epitaph  on  Ben  Jonsoa  (Cleveland), 

165. 
Epitaph    on    a   Mineralogist    (Mrs. 

Hemans),  423. 
Epithalammni  (Spenser),  84. 
Equipage  of  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies 

(Drayton),  96-97. 
Essay  on  Criticism  (Pope),  207. 
Essay  on  Man  (Pope),  210-211. 
Eton  College  (Gray),  254. 
Eulogium  of  Hakon,  King  of  Nor- 
way (Eyvyud),  18. 
Euphues;  or.  The  Anatomy  of  Wit 

(John  Lyly),  76. 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes  (Keats),  453-454. 
Everv  Man  in  his  Humor  (Jouson), 

119-120. 
Excursion,  The  (Wordsworth),  313. 


Fable  (Warner),  110. 
Fables  (Dryden),  176. 
Faery  Queen  (Spenser),  79, 81,  82,  84, 

86-88. 
Fair  Inez  (Hood),  478. 
Farmer's  Boy  (Bloomfield),  393. 
Farmer's  Ingle  (Fergusson),  279. 
Fatal  Dowry  (Massinger),  123. 
Faustus  (Marlowe),  117-119. 
Feast  of  Roses  (Moore),  370. 
Ferrex  and  Porrex   (Sackville  and 

Norton),  114. 
Fight  of  Finsborough,  37. 
Fire  Worshippers  (Moore),  36D. 
First    Love's    Recollections  (Clare), 

407-408. 
Flower   of   Dumblane    (Tannahill), 

408-409. 
Fountain,  The  (Wordsworth),  304. 
Fox  at  the  Point  of  Death  (Gay),  219. 


POEMS  QUOTED  OR  MENTIONED. 


603 


France  (Coleridge),  329. 

Friar's  Tale  (Chaucer),  55. 

From    Greenland's    Icy    Mountains 

(Heber),  494. 
Fugitive  Poem,  A  (Lydgate),  61-63. 


Gamester,  The  (Shirley),  157. 

Garland,  The  (Prior),  217-218. 

Gebir  (Landor),  484. 

Gentle  Shepherd  (Ramsay),  277. 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming  (Campbell), 
345,  349. 

Giaour,  The  (Byron),  349. 

Girdle,  A  (Waller),  163. 

Go,  Forget  Me  (Wolfe),  496. 

Golden  Legend  (Longfellow),  44. 

Good-Natured  Man  (Goldsmith),  248. 

Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill  (Words- 
worth), 304. 

Green  Grow  the  Rashes,  0  (Bums), 
296. 


Halloween  (Burns),  291. 

Hamlet  (Shakespeare),  142. 

Hare  with  Many  Friends  (Gay),  219- 

221. 
Henry  IV.  (Shakespeare),  143. 
Highland  Mary  (Burns),  295. 
Hind  and  Panther  (Dryden),  174. 
History  of   John  Gilpin  (Cowper), 

268-269. 
Hours  of  Idleness  (Bj-ron),  374. 
House  of  Fame  (Chaucer),  51. 
Hudibras  (Butler),  166-167. 
Hymn  to  the  Night   (Longfellow), 

236. 
Hymns  (Cowper),  266. 
Hyperion  (Keats),  450. 


Idiot  Boy  (Wordsworth),  303. 
Improvisatrice  (Miss  Landon),  425. 
Indian    City   (Mrs.  Hemans),   418- 

419. 
In  Memoriam  (Tennyson),  466. 
Insatiate  Countess  (Marston),  126. 


Irish  Melody  (Moore),  373. 
Italy  (Rogers),  488,  489. 

Judith  and  Holofernes  (Anglo- 
Saxon),  36. 
Julius  Caesar  (Shakespeare),  143. 


Keeping  of  the  Bridge  (Macau- 
lay),  480-483. 

Kilmeny  (Hogg),  400-401. 

King's  Quhair  (King  James  I.  of 
Scotland),  273. 

Knight's  Tale  (Chaucer),  50. 

Kubla  Khan  (Coleridge),  321,  325. 

Lady  of  the  Lake  (Scott),  354, 
363-365. 

Lady  Geraldine  (Mrs.  Browning), 
430. 

Lady's  Bonnet  (Burns),  294. 

L' Allegro  (Milton),  188. 

Lalla  Rookh  (Moore),  369-370. 

Lamia,  Isabella,  and  other  Poems 
(Keats),  448. 

Lancashire  Witches  (Heywood),  125. 

Laodamia  (Wordsworth),  306-312. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  (Scott),  64, 
353,  360-361. 

Lear  (Shakespeare),  142. 

Legend  of  Ariadne  (Chaucer),  51. 

Lenore  (Scott),  353. 

Liberty  (Thomson),  239. 

Lines  to  Anne  Boleyn  (Wyatt),  67-68. 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air  (Shelley),  468. 

Lines  to  his  Wife  (Spenser),  80. 

Literary  Advertisement  (Moore),  372- 
373. 

Little  Song,  A  (Wolfe),  495. 

Lord  of  the  Isles  (Scott),  365,  392. 

Love  (Coleridge),  321. 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Educa- 
tion (Coleridge),  333. 

Love's  Mistress  (Heywood),  125. 

Loves  of  the  Angels  (Moore),  370. 

Lycidas  (Milton),  194-195,  466. 

Lyric,  A  (Cunningham),  404-405. 


504 


POEMS  QUOTED  OR  MENTIONED. 


Lyric,  A  (Herrick),  106-107. 
Lyric,  A  (Montgomery),  499-500. 


Macbeth  (Shakespeare),  142,  149- 
151. 

Mac  Flecknoe  (Dryden),  174. 

Malcontent  (Marston),  126. 

Manfred  (Byron),  381-383. 

Marmion  (Scott),  354,  361-363. 

Measure  for  Measure  (Shakespeare), 
143. 

Medal,  The  (Dryden),  174. 

Merchant  of  Venice  (Shakespeare), 
153. 

Mermaid,  The  (Leyden),  39L 

Merry  Wives    of  Windsor  (Shake- 
speare), 138,  143. 

Metres  of  King  Alfred  (Boethius),  38. 

Midsummer  Fairies  (Hood),  473. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream  (Shake- 
speare), 142. 

Minstrel,  The  (Beattie),  242. 

Minstrel's  Song  in  ^lla  (Chatterton), 
260-261. 

Minstrelsy  of    the  Scottish   Border 
(Scott),  353. 

Mirrour  for  Magistrates  (Sackville), 
77. 

Mistress;  or,  Love  Verses  (Cowley), 
170. 

Monkey,  The  (Gay),  219. 

Morte  D' Arthur  (Tennyson),  21. 

Mother  Hubbard's  Tale   (Spenser), 
78,  84. 

New  Wat  to  pay    Old   Debts 

(Massinger),  123,  124. 
Night  Thoughts  (Young),  234,  235, 

236. 
Nut-Brown  Maid,  26. 


O'Connor's  Child  (Campbell),  846- 

347. 
Ode  on  Immortality    Wordsworth), 

304,  314. 
Ode  on  the  Nativity  (Milton),  187. 


Ode  to  a  Nightingale  (Keats), 

453. 
Odes  (Collins),  249,  250. 
Of  a  Clerk  (Chaucer),  52-53. 
Old  Bachelor  (Congreve),  230. 
Orphan,  The  (Otway),  179. 
Ossian  (Macpherson),  258-259. 
Othello  (Shakespeare),  142. 


Pains  of  Sleep  (Coleridge),  325. 
Paradise  and  the  Peri  (Moore),  369. 
Paradise  Lost  (Milton),  196-203. 
Paradise  Regained  (Milton),  203. 
Parish  Register  (Crabbe),  394,  395. 
Pelican  Island  (Montgomery),  499. 
Penseroso,  II  (Milton),  188. 
Picture   of  Lucy  (Habington),  105- 

106. 
Pindaric  Odes  (Cowley),  170. 
Pirate  Lover's  Serenade  (Scott),  366. 
Pleasures  of  Hope  (Campbell),  343, 

344-345,  349. 
Pleasures  of  Memory  (Rogers),  488. 
Poems  descriptive  of  Rural  Life  and 

Scenery  (Clare),  406. 
Poem  to  Celia  (Carew),  163. 
Poem  to  Mary  (Cowper),  266-268. 
Poem  to  his  Sister  (Byron),  380-381. 
Poetical  Letter  (Addison),  227. 
Poet's  Prayer  (Elliott),  409-410. 
Polly  (Gay),  219. 
Polyolbion  (Drayton),  95. 
Portrait  of  Shakespeare,  On  the  (Jon- 
son),  121-122. 
Portuguese  Sonnets  (Mrs.  Browning), 

427-428. 
Praise  of  his  Love  (Surrey),  66-67. 
Prelude  (Wordsworth),  3*14. 
Pricke  of  Conscience  (Rolle),  42. 
Primroses  filled  with  Morning  Dew 

(Herrick),  107-108. 
Prisoner  of  Chillon  (Byron),  377. 
Progress  of  Poetry  (Gray),  252,  253, 

254. 
Prologue  (Heywood),  125. 
Prometheus  Unbound  (Shelley),  462- 
463. 


POEMS  QUOTED  OR  MENTIONED. 


505 


Properzia  Rossi  (Mrs.  Hemans),  419- 

420. 
Pulley,  The  (Herbert),  103-104. 


Queen  Mab  (Shelley),  460. 
Queen's  Wake  (Hogg),  399. 


Ralph  Royster  Doystek  (Udall), 
113. 

Rape  of  the  Lock  (Pope),  207-209. 

Rape  of  Lucrece  (Heywood),  125. 

Records  of  Woman  (Mrs.  Hemans), 
418. 

Remorse  (Coleridge),  321,  334. 

Revenge  (Young),  235. 

Revolt  of  Islam  (Shelley),  461-462. 

Richard  HI.  (Shakespeare),  142. 

Rokeby  (Scott),  365. 

Romaunt  of  the  Rose  (Chaucer),  50. 

Romeo  and  Juliet  (Shakespeare),  142. 

Royal  King  and  Loyal  Subject  (Hey- 
wood), 125. 


Sabbath,  The  (Grahame),  494. 
Sabbath  Sonnet  (Mrs.  Hemans),  416- 

417. 
Scholar   and    His   Dog    (Marston), 

126-127. 
Seasons,  The  (Thomson),  238,  239. 
Selections  (Wordsworth),  305-306. 
She  stoops  to  Conquer  (Goldsmith), 

248. 
She    was    a    Phantom    of    Delighiji 

(Wordsworth),  300. 
Shepherd's  Calendar,  (Spenser),  78, 

84. 
Shepherd's  Week  (Gay),  219. 
Sibylline  Leaves  (Coleridge),  325. 
Sicilian  Captive  (Mrs.  Hemans),  421. 
Silent  Woman  (Jonson),  120. 
Sir  Cauline,  26. 
Skylark,  The  (Hogg),  403. 
Song  of  the  Shirt  (Hood),  477,  478. 
Song  to  Lucy  (Lovelace),  159. 
Sonnet,  A  (Hood),  476-477,  478. 


Sonnet  to  Sleep  (Sidney),  92. 
Sonnet     on    His    Wife's    Portrait 

(Wordsworth),  300. 
Sonnets  (Raleigh),  94-95. 
Stanzas  (Donne),  100-101. 
Summer  (Thomson),  239-240. 
Swan  Song  (Mrs.  Hemans),  421-423. 


Table  Talk  (Cowper),  265. 

Tales  of  the  Hall  (Crabbe),  395. 

Tam  O'Shanter  (Burns),  289-290. 

Tancred  and  Gismunda,  114. 

Task,  The  (Cowper),  265. 

Temperance;  or.  The  Cheap  Physi- 
cian (Crashaw),  109. 

Tempest  (Shakespeare),  142, 146. 

Their  Groves  of  Sweet  Myrtle 
(Burns),  296. 

Thoughts  of  Heaven  (Nicoll),  410. 

Time,  Real  and  Imaginary  (Cole- 
ridge), 329. 

Tintern  Abbey  (Wordsworth),  304, 
314. 

Titus  Andronicus  (Shakespeare), 
138. 

To  the  Butterfly  (Rogers),  488. 

To  Roses,  in  the  Bosom  of  Castara 
(Habington),  106. 

To  Sleep  (Fletcher  and  Beaumont), 
123. 

To  Stella  at  Thirty-Six  (Swift),  223. 

Tragical  History  of  Pyramus  and 
Thisbe  (Cowley),  170. 

Translation  of  Schiller's  "  Wallen- 
stein"  (Coleridge),  334-335. 

Traveller,  The  (Goldsmith),  246. 

Tribute  to  Hood  (Lowell),  478-479. 

Troilus  and  Cressida  (Chaucer),  50. 

True  Worth  of  Life  (Jonson),  122. 

Twa  Dogs  (Bums),  292. 

Twelfth  Night  (Shakespeare),  134, 
142. 

Tyrannic  Love  (Dryden),  173. 


Universal  Passion  (Young),  235. 


506 


POEMS  QUOTED  OR  MENTIONED. 


Vanity  of  Human   Wishes  (Dr. 

Johnson),  242. 
Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan  (Moore), 

369. 
Venice  Preserved  (Otway),  179-180. 
Verses    on    Cowper's    Grave    (Mrs. 

Browning),  438-439. 
Village,  The  (Crabbe),  394,  395. 
Virgin  Martyr  (Massinger),  123. 
Vision,  The  (Burns),  292. 
Vision   of  Piers  Ploughman   (Robt. 

Langland),  42,  48. 
Volpone  (Jonson),  120. 


Wanderer      of       Switzerland 
(Montgomery),  499. 


Wedding,  The  (Suckling),  160-161. 

We  are  Seven  (Wordsworth),  304. 

What  You  Will  (Marston),  126. 

White  Devil  (Webster),  128. 

Wild  Huntsman  (Scott),  353. 

Witch,  The  (Middleton),  127. 

Woman  Killed  with  Kindness  (Hey- 
wood),  125. 

World  is  Too  Mach  with  Us  (Words- 
worth), 312. 


Your  Beauty,  Lady  fair  (Richard 

in.  and  Blondel),  23. 
Youth  and  Age  (Coleridge),  333-334. 

Zapoyla  (Coleridge),  325,  334. 


UHIVERSIT 


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